John 8:7
by JMK758
Summary: In Twisted Sister Tim McGee, in an effort to protect his sister, resigned from NCIS, albeit briefly. Now he must risk abandoning all he has believed in as he sacrifices the law to protect the guilty. I live for Reviews.
1. Assignments

This is my tenth NCIS Mystery. The list, including non-mysteries, grew so extensive I moved it to my Profile. The numerous Affairs in my series are, of course, an Homage to Ducky.  
The usual Disclaimers apply. I'm not trying to take anything except Abby, Michelle and Ziva. I do own Siobhan (Sha-vawn) O'Mallory and the Agents created to round out a 24/7 organization. The characters appearing in these stories are fictional with no similarity to anyone, living or dead. Though Virginia Hospital Center is a real facility, the description and staff depicted are fictional. This story picks up at the end of 'Inner Darkness'.  
Please Review.  
Rating: T or NCis-17. Death, Violence, Intrigue, Mystery.

John 8:7  
By JMK758  
Prologue

The jangling of the telephone inches from her right ear jars Jennifer Shepherd awake. She opens her eyes into the blackness of her bedroom and turns to the clock on the night table beside her, forcing her focus on the red numbers: 3:26.

'Al Bell, I hate you,' she thinks bitterly as she reaches into the darkness, her hand closing on the phone, ending its noise. As Director of NCIS she's used to late night interruptions and had installed a phone with an extra loud ringer so she wouldn't miss urgent calls. That doesn't mean she has to like them. "Shepherd."

"Director, Fred Higgins," the Supervisor of one of the four Gamma Shift teams tells her, "I'm sorry to wake you but you wanted this information as soon as it came in."

"Yes."

"Natasha Klein's records show large deposits transferred from a Swiss Bank, the same account that funded Dr. Samuel Richards' mind control experiments. We're now certain that those two operations, along with Dr. John Carson's attempt to steal the Photon Density Converter's plans, are all funded by the same people."

"Call the Team Leaders, conference in MTAC 0700."

Chapter One  
Assignments

Shepherd stands in the dimly lit Multi-Threat Assessment Center, the dark screen behind her, three rows of four chairs before her. Her manner, restrained and closed, doesn't invite anyone to approach her. Before her sit the leaders of the twelve Major Case Response teams. When they'd entered, each had received whispered direction from Cynthia Sumner at the door, one word instructions on where each was to sit. Shepherd wanted Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Robert DiMarco, Martine Joswig and Fred Higgins to sit in the first four seats, the other Team Leaders arrayed behind them.

For some it's early morning, for others quitting time, while still others consider it the middle of the night. When all are assembled and Cynthia Sumner joins her front and center, Shepherd addresses her Lieutenants.

"I have been ordered to reveal this information to no one, or the Government will regret my death." She lets the shocking implications of that statement sink in before surprising them further. "I am now about to disobey those orders. You, in turn, are to share this only with your Teams." Though aware that many of these details are at least partially known, she has to assume they are not and must cover everything from the beginning.

"All of you have been at least partially briefed on the details of Dr. John Carson's attempt to sell a secret device as a weapon of unprecedented power to a foreign country. The details of this, and the murders of several key Scientists by the Assassin Ronald Adolphus, a.k.a. 'the Iceman', were a closely guarded secret."

x

She reveals everything about the PDC Mark 9, withholding only its actual operation, concluding with "our Government, through the hand of the US Army, has made it quite clear that the secrecy of this device is of paramount importance, even over the lives of Federal Agents, whose deaths the Government would 'regret'. Though its existence is considered a necessary defensive weapon, it can be used offensively, and such use would violate so many International Arms Regulations I won't even bother to list them. You are again cautioned to keep those secrets carefully guarded, your Teams should be alerted only on a 'Need to Know' basis.

"The source of funding for the attempted theft of this secret, and for the killings of the Scientists involved in its creation and construction, is a Swiss Bank Account, numbered and secret, of course." She tries not to lay the irony on too thickly. Neutrality has its benefits, she can see precious little of them.

"Particularly disturbing is that, in spite of concessions granted as a result of the on-going war on terrorism, we are still unable to identify the owners of these funds. The Swiss have - on occasion - been accommodating to our Government in revealing funds identified as 'terror related' but this time they are not. It would be bad enough if this were the only case - but it is not.

"You have been further briefed, in considerably more detail, about the mind-control experiments of the late psychiatrist Dr. Samuel Richards. When prematurely activated, these experiments resulted in the deaths of numerous Navy and Army personnel and their dependants. This operation was also funded through a Swiss Bank Account, that account is consecutively numbered next to the one which funded Carson's activity.

"Yesterday we discovered that Special Agent Timothy McGee had been captured by a terrorist cell, one of whom impersonated Agent McGee. For two days this faux-McGee, identified as Dennis Whitney of Nevada, had access to all of our records." This information had definitely not been revealed and she watches the shockwave progress through the room on the faces of the Team Leaders. "The purpose of this capture and impersonation was to obtain the 'Delphi code'."

She gives the men and women a few moments to absorb the dread import of this news. That code protects the personal and background records of every NCIS Agent in the world. It's intended to be a source of information in finding an Agent who is lost and unable to reestablish communication with his or her headquarters.

The enemy would use it to track down and kill every Agent in the world.

x

"The code was not obtained. The records they cover are believed to still be secure and the code and encryptions have been changed. We have no idea exactly what wasobtained during the two day span that this intruder had access to our systems. The known operatives in this cell - Natasha Klein, Robert Kimmel of New York and Steven Sullivan of Florida, were killed during the rescue of Special Agents McGee and Lee, who had been captured in an earlier attempt to recover Agent McGee. Agent McGee is presently hospitalized and will be disabled for an unknown period. In the meantime, everything his doppelganger had access to is being minutely examined by our computer experts.

"All four operatives of this cell have been established to have connections with several radical and subversive organizations both here and abroad. Klein's include being a very active supporter of the American Nazi Party. I would not have procured so high profile a person for a covert operation, nevertheless someone did."

x

"Special Agents Gibbs, DiMarco, Joswig and Higgins," she addresses the four in the first seats, "you will coordinate these investigations, all other teams will be allocated by and report to you. Every other case beyond these is reduced one level in priority. However, all cases will continue uninterrupted." She receives acknowledgements from all her Team Leaders.

"Gibbs, your team and those you assign will focus on Richards, Natasha Klein and Dennis Whitney. Also continue to research Richards' hypnodisks and find out if there are any others out there. Trace the backgrounds of those operatives, where they got their funding, who their contacts were and extrapolate their plans. Find their future targets. DiMarco, your teams will focus on Robert Kimmel and Stephen Sullivan, again extrapolation is the key.

"Joswig, you will trace and locate Jack Carson and Ron Adolphus. Where they are now? What they are doing and especially is Adolphus, while working for the Army, connected in any more hits funded by the Swiss. Investigate who his current targets are. Expect to dodge the Army at every turn. Higgins, your team will focus on the Swiss. I don't care what it takes: break them.

"All other teams, in addition to your normal duties, you will coordinate with Gibbs, DiMarco, Higgins and Joswig on all aspects of this case.

"It's obvious why they wanted to break the Delphi code. By taking out the defenders of the Marines and Navy it leaves them _and their dependants_ vulnerable to attack. Our military men and women are well equipped for combat but they depend on our support not only for security but to protect their dependants. The Army CID, the Air Force and so forth are conducting corresponding investigations in these matters.

"As of now, the identification and apprehension of the backers of these accounts is the top NCIS priority. All Agents not involved with critical matters are to devote their full efforts to breaking this secrecy. If you feel you have to use methods I will not be happy about, inform me - and then execute.

"I'm putting you on the hot seat, and it's going to get pretty damn hot. Ladies and gentlemen, let's break these people."

xx

When Gibbs enters the Squad Room, about to start issuing orders, he is surprised to see Michelle Lee sitting at her desk. When she notices him he cocks his finger to her, turns and walks away. Michelle gets up and follows him, not wanting to think of the confrontation to come.

She doesn't meet his eyes when she arrives at the elevator. When the doors open she steps in, doesn't turn back until the doors close and Gibbs slaps the Emergency Stop button. The lights dimming and the supplementary lights under the hand rails come on to compensate.

"What are you doing here?"

His tone is softer than usual and she detests it. She looks up, hating as always that she has to look so high. "My job, sir."

"You're on disability."

"Tim is on disability. I'm on the binnacle list until the NCIS Psychiatrist clears me for duty and that could take weeks. That leaves you two Agents down."

"There's a reason why you're relieved."

"I don't want to talk about what happened to me," she declares sharply, but then pulls it down. A newly vetted Agent does not snap at the Deputy Special Agent-in-Charge. Ziva might do it, she can't. "You need me on the team if the Director's summons for all Supervisors this morning means what I think it does."

Gibbs considers the young woman. A few months ago she could not speak to him and meet his eyes, now she's standing up to him and, by extension, all of NCIS hierarchy.

They had rescued her less than a day ago and found her naked, bound and tortured. She'd told them she had not been raped, but nothing more. He didn't believe her then or now.

She has the right not to talk about it, they have the right to make sure she is fit for duty. However, Shepherd's orders mean he can't afford to be two Agents down.

He reaches for the controls, the lights come back up and the doors open. "What are you waiting for? Get back to work."

He'll clear this with Shepherd. It's one of the many things he will have to address when he speaks to her again.

x

"Ziva, dig up everything you have on Sam Richards," Gibbs orders as he enters the bullpen. "I want to how he got his clients, why military dependants with free medical care went to a private shrink. Where and how did he have his upswing?" The psychiatrist's business had been in a tailspin for nearly a year, then suddenly he'd been free of debt and on his way to wealth. They'd never had any doubt how he'd gotten out of debt, but the details are essential. "Did he work alone, or are there are others with those disks floating around." That had been an outstanding detail of the case, now it's top priority.

"DiNozzo, find out everything you can about Natasha Klein, her history, overseas contacts, everything."

"On her, boss."

Gibbs doesn't even waste a glare on him, doesn't care what thoughts had gone through the man's head. Klein is quite deservedly dead. "Lee, everything you can get on Dennis Whitney, I want it on my desk in one hour."

"I'm glad he's dead, sir, I can give you that right now." Yesterday Whitney, while impersonating McGee, had sadistically tortured her in an effort to break the silence of the real McGee. She's still sore from many injuries she'd held secret from all except for Jimmy Palmer. She had refused to allow Ducky to examine her, insisting McGee's more serious injuries should be treated first. However, Palmer had taken her to her own doctor and she has not shared the results of that exam or treatment.

Michelle can't hold secret her humiliation, however. She had confronted Special Agent Gibbs and had – incredibly for her – stood up to him. She can't, however, escape her own memories. She'd been found naked, bound and helpless. Tim had seen her like that for what seemed like hours. How can she face her co-workers, her friends?

x

Gibbs turns to the desk between Lee's and DiNozzo's. "Mc–" he cuts himself off. Though he would love to have the services of the computer expert, Tim McGee is confined to a bed in Bethesda Naval Hospital, recovering from the wounds he'd received during two days of brutal torture. His captors had wanted the Delphi Code, a secret Tim had been determined to carry with him to his grave.

The Delphi Code would have unlocked all information about every NCIS Agent in the world. McGee had held out until the capture of Michelle Lee had allowed him to pretend to break rather than allow her torture to continue, and to turn over not the Delphi but the Doomsday Code. It was a 'Scarlet Alert' code which had set off every alarm, klaxon and siren in the entire Navy Yard. It had also allowed NCIS to break the scheme and rescue the captured Agents.

It would be good to have McGee's aid in learning if any secrets had been compromised in the two days Dennis Whitney had access to their systems. That question is being intently researched by Cyber Crime, but Gibbs prefers a known talent. It galls him that no member of his team, other than Abby who's currently swamped, can do the job better than NCIS' other computer experts.

He notices his team has paused at his aborted command, each anticipating the redirected assignment. He wishes he had someone to give it to. "What are you all sitting around for?"

They rush to resume work.

xxx

In Autopsy, Ducky Mallard and Jimmy Palmer work upon the corpse of a middle aged black woman who had been found during a drug case spearheaded by SSA Karen Kopec and her team. While Director Shepherd's orders are clear, existing investigations cannot be stopped.

Ducky, expounding at length on the possible ways the woman could have died and about to launch into a retrospective explanation of a previous, similar case, all for his apprentice's edification, realizes it has been quite some time since the young man has said anything at all. Looking up, he is surprised at the intense rage burning upon his friend's face. He turns off the voice activated tape recorder set upon the table beside the woman's leg.

"What is it, my boy?"

Jimmy, broken out of his fierce reverie by his mentor's quiet question, is about to deny that anything is wrong but sees no point in the lie. "'_Chelle_!" His voice is harder than he intends but he can't help it, he can't quench the burning anger. "Agent Gibbs had her call for help on his cell phone for over _two hours_! He could have saved her!"

Yesterday, when the Agents had been rescued, Michelle had been found naked, bound and cruelly tortured. She had refused medical aid from NCIS, even avoiding Ducky's assistance. Jimmy had taken her to her own doctor, who had told him nothing other than having 'found no lingering physical injuries from her ordeal'.

He didn't believe a word of it.

She'd insisted to one and all that she was fine. It was only when he'd brought her back to the safety of her own apartment and she was safe behind double locked doors and in the security of his arms that she had released all that she had been holding so tightly to for all the hours since her rescue.

He'd been frightened by her alternating hysteria and wild fury, her weeping and shrill screams. He'd tried to comfort her but she was out of control, had wanted to stay out of control, hadn't giving in to any self-control until she'd utterly exhausted herself. Her hysteria had been cathartic. That and the medications the doctor had prescribed had allowed her to be asleep when Shepherd, Ducky and the rest had arrived an hour later.

He'd met them in her living room, allowing only Ducky to see her, and he hadn't disturbed her rest.

x

When Gibbs had admitted not knowing about Michelle's call for help until it had been far too late, Tony DiNozzo had barely restrained Jimmy's furious rush, holding the raging man back. Gibbs had called him off.

Jimmy hadn't followed his furious urge, even though Gibbs clearly did not intend to stop him from throwing the first punch. Jimmy had held himself in even tighter restraint than DiNozzo had done, afraid that if he started he wouldn't be able to stop.

He'd held onto his anger instead. He realizes now that he had never stopped.

x

Ducky looks up at his apprentice, knowing nothing can placate the man. To mention Gibbs' ongoing failures to learn how to use his own phone's voice mail would be a terrible mistake. "There is no justification for what Miss Lee has gone through," he admits. "You and she are quite justified in your anger. May I caution you, however, that at this moment Miss Lee needs your understanding, patience and love so that she may feel free to indulge and release her own anger?"

"But what can I do?"

What indeed? The wrong suggestion would be worse than nothing. "NCIS makes extensive use of counselors, as you know. You have grown acquainted with several of them during your recent crises regarding Mr. Franklin."

"I mentioned it. She doesn't want to say anything to anyone who has to file reports. She won't open up if she thinks someone is going to read what she says."

Ducky won't insult his friend's intelligence with blanket assurances. "Then may I suggest Mother O'Mallory? Her discretion in keeping secrets has a somewhat different basis than occupational or crisis therapists. I doubt she is even required to write anything down, especially the content of an informal, private conversation."

"But what can I _do_?" he can't contain his frustration, needing an answer from his mentor, some guidance that will help get them through this.

"Be a calm and loving presence. Make her know she is secure with you, that she may say anything to you, regardless of what it is. Victims are known to suffer guilt as well as pain and fear. I understand she fought well, but four-to-one odds are not to be trifled with. She must accept that she did all she could, and that she has no guilt. She will go through an extensive period of recovery, even as you did during your crisis. As she was there to support you, it is now your turn."

Jimmy doesn't answer; his thoughts introspective and Ducky doesn't interrupt.

He turns the recorder back on and, except for required observations for the record, the rest of the autopsy is conducted in silence.

Last evening Shepherd had been about to order Michelle to be taken to the hospital despite her protests. Jimmy had gone in to her bedroom but had been unwilling, unable to bring himself to wake her. Five minutes later he had returned to the living room, having made up his mind to do anything to get the woman to change her mind.

He had been astonished to learn she already had.

xxx

Two hours later Ziva David returns to her desk after handing Gibbs the results of her research in time to snatch up her ringing phone. She's surprised to be greeted by a familiar voice. /Hi, Zee./

"Tim, you are supposed to be asleep or something." She tries to keep her voice from traveling to her teammates nearby.

/How much sleep can a man get? I don't belong in a hospital./

It's a complaint he's made several times already and must knows it again falls on deaf ears. She hears a click on the line; someone has picked up another phone.

"McGee, get to bed, that's an order."

/I'm in be–/ the line has already clicked off. /I wish he wouldn't do that,/ he tells Ziva.

"What can you expect? We are very busy."

/What's up?/

Ziva looks at Gibbs, her eyes telling him all he needs to know. He nods, acceding to the inevitable. In brief sentences she tells him everything that has happened since he'd succumbed to Ducky's medications and woke up in the hospital.

x

/I should be there,/ he protests when Ziva finishes.

"You should be resting, recovering so you _can_ come back to work."

/If I lay on my back when the painkillers wear down it hurts from the burns and bruises. If I lay face down my stomach and chest hurt from the burns and bruises. I don't get another dose of medicine for 43 more minutes./ She's hardly surprised that he has it down to the minute. /If I'm going to sit up so I don't hurt I should at least make myself useful doing something./

"I am starting to realize why Gibbs slaps people."

/Come on, Zee, have a heart. I'm going stir crazy in here./

"You have been there for less than a day."

/See how nuts it's making me? I can't even tell time anymore./

She scans her desk for something to throw. "All right, Tim, I will make you a deal. If you are still suicidal enough to want to leave the hospital by the time I am off duty, I will come down and check you out, _if_ your doctor says it is all right. But then I take you home and you _stay_ home, keeping in mind you will have no one to nurse you back to health while I am on duty."

/I don't _need_ a nurse,/ he insists, /and I can help./

"No you can not." She doesn't have the heart to tell him that his computer, upon which he lavishes the devotion of a young mother with a newborn, had been shot three times by Whitney and is currently in IT, its innards being salvaged as far as possible into a new body. It's being inspected to learn everything Whitney did during the two days he'd impersonated the wounded man.

/Then I can work from home. I can slave my computer there through my workstation at home, access all of NCIS' files and search for clues in my boxers./

"I _know _what is in your boxers and it is not clues."

/I mean–/

"All _right_!" she takes a deep breath, holds it, can't feel calmer. "All right, I will talk to Gibbs, get his permission. He will probably whack _my_ head because you are out of reach–"

/I'll kiss it and make it better./

"You will do a lot more than that - because I am coming with you and if you try to leave the apartment I shall handcuff you to the bed."

/I thought Abby was the only one who did that./

x

He realizes his mistake an instant before the phone is slammed down on his ear.

He at least has sense enough not to call back.

x

"He can do _what_?"

"From his home computer he has the ability to access his computer here, rather some other since his is shot to hell, and get into all the files. For him it will be as though he were sitting at his desk."

Gibbs isn't thrilled to hear he can do this after the invasion of their files that they had already suffered. However, considering the seriousness of the situation the Agency as a whole is under, he's nevertheless grateful for any assistance the computer expert can render. "Okay, go get him this evening, start him researching what files Whitney opened, what he learned about NCIS that's not in the files protected by Delphi. But you watch him, if he shows any sign that he can't make it, you get him back to the hospital and you _do_ handcuff him to the bed."

Ziva nods, regretting how clearly her voice must have carried.

"Lee, what do you have on Whitney?" She'd turned in a report by the one hour deadline, he'd sent her back for more even before looking at the pages.

"I'm still glad he's dead, sir," the man had been instrumental in her capture and had led in her torture. Though Ziva's bullet that had ended his life in this room she still holds a grudge. _She'd _wanted to kill him. His blood and brains have been scrubbed from McGee's desk; she'd wanted to do worse.

Seeing the look on Gibbs' face, she knows she has used up all the latitude she has. "I've traced most of his history, sir, but I can find no reliable data to confirm just when he might have been recruited into the terrorist cell."

"I think I can help with that," DiNozzo reports. "Natasha Klein's flight records show she made three trips to Las Vegas in the early spring of last year, stayed at the same hotel each time." He forwards the data to Lee's terminal.

"That's about a mile and a half from Whitney's place of business," she reports with a grateful nod to DiNozzo. Without coordinated effort such as this, tracing so many disparate people as the teams must backtrack would be unimaginably difficult. Robert DiMarco and his team in their office upstairs on the fourth floor are tracking Robert Kimmel and Stephen Sullivan, the other two members of the cell. She forwards the combined information, flagging it to Kevin Lamb's terminal.

xx

Gibbs continues his own research when an announcing 'ping' and the appearance of a dialogue box in the lower right of his monitor screen alert him that he has new e-mail. Opening it, he finds it to have originated twelve feet to his left. He glances at Michelle Lee who works intently at her station and wonders why she does not simply report her findings aloud.

The message contains no words from her, simply a blue underlined link. Clicking on it opens a web page displaying instructions for activating and using the voice-mail feature on his cell phone.

Gibbs glares across the bullpen at this busy Agent, whose back remains turned to him. The e-mail contained no message. If it had, or if she had spoken aloud, they would be on their way right now to an elevator conference. However, there was nothing he could by any stretch call her upon. The link was impersonal information only, and that itself is enough of a message.

Swallowing his annoyance, he tries to see her side of the issue, not hard to do as he begins to read.

xx

"Ziva, what about Sam Richards?" he asks ten minutes later. She had been assigned to continue the research into the late psychiatrist's activities, how he got the hypnotic CDs he had been distributing to unsuspecting patients and how he was funded. The money had come from a numbered account in Switzerland, the owner's identity still obscure.

"Whoever his contact was, I am starting to believe he kept it in his head–"

"Rather tough for a head shrinker," DiNozzo opines, earning him sour looks from everyone else.

"_Because _I can find nothing in his personal records or in that secret pocket on his hard drive that Tim found. We do know that the programming he was feeding his unsuspecting patients contained instructions to transfer all their assets, of whatever kind, to the same Swiss Account that was funding him. This was done each time immediately before they carried out their programmed murders and suicides, but the people running the thing are smart. I tried making a deposit to that same account and it was rejected."

"When was the account closed?"

"According to my sources, it has not been - not that they are being forthcoming with any other information. It is simply not accepting unauthorized deposits."

"I think that's the first time I've ever heard of 'unauthorized deposits'." DiNozzo observes.

"It requires a prefix code, but the codes used by Joralemon, MacDiamond and Nelson are no longer accepted; they have been deactivated. Apparently it allows a single dump from each, then self-deletes."

"Then what we need is an unused code." He picks up the telephone, a moment later changing his mind. He's had enough of sitting at his desk, researching half a dozen different leads. He needs some exercise.

xx

When he enters the Forensics Lab he has to admit that he wouldn't have been entirely surprised to find it upside down. Finding Abby upside down, however, is a different matter.

She's perched in the rear corner of her lab, upon her daybed, back pressed to the wall and her head flat upon the upholstery, her twin pigtails laid out to either side of her head. She's wearing a black tee shirt with very small white lettering he cannot distinguish upside down and, fortunately, black pants.

"Abby, what are you doing?"

She glances down to his face and then forward, addressing his knees. "I'm standing on my head." Her smile is in sharp contrast with his deepening scowl.

"I can _see_ you're standing on your head._Why_ are you standing on your head?"

"My feet are tired."

"Abby…" He has already had too much of this.

She brings her right leg forward, upsetting her balance and follows through to land on her feet, turns to face him, that smile still on her face. He has a moment to lean in, straining to read the very tiny white lettering spread across her impressive chest. '_If you can read this, my friend Gibbs will smack you_.'

Trying very hard to hold the scowl he shakes his head, regretting not having used the phone. Instead, he plunges ahead, outlining the problem of the disks and deposit prefix codes for her.

"I'll get right on it," she promises.

"And stay off your head."

xx

It barely takes a half hour for Abby to produce the results Gibbs had sought and to present them to him and the others in person in the Squad Room, her manner thoroughly self-satisfied. Gibbs is pleased she now wears her closed white lab coat.

"I found three separate prefix codes from three disks, there are more but since the commands aren't exactly the same, I'd have to listen to each of them individually. I figured three would be a reasonable start.

"DiNozzo, David, Lee, make some deposits." The codes are distributed, each logs on as a different victim per Abby's notes. Results are rapid.

"Not accepted," Lee reports.

"Nada," DiNozzo confirms a second later.

"Squat and diddily," Ziva adds a moment later. No one bothers to correct her as she continues, "I still get the 'unauthorized transaction', but this time it seems the prefix code is not turned on."

"Smart people," Gibbs grants, having expected no less. "They're probably set only after the kill code is sent out, or a few minutes before. Until someone sets off a Sleeper, the prefix code is useless."

Ziva's reply is in Hebrew, not directed to anyone and no one asks for a translation.

xx

Compiling information is one of the most time-consuming functions of Investigative work, and while the results can lead to conclusions that are sometimes dramatic and explosive, the actual process is both energizing and tedious. It is a contradictory and never welcome combination.

By 1600 the team has accomplished an impressive amount of work, but by no means has the job been completed, merely started for Beta Shift. Gibbs sends his people home, with instructions to pick up the enhanced trail again in the morning. He knows Ziva will free McGee from his seemingly intolerable bondage, tomorrow he'll have the computer expert's assistance, albeit remotely.

xxx

Holding a Federal Agent against his will is considered by the staff of Bethesda Hospital to be more trouble than it's worth, especially when his injuries are not life threatening and he's determined to leave.

Determined as he is, however, his body is not up to his will. The bruises on his face only hint at his true wounds. The burns that cover most of his upper body, bandaged as they are, slow his movements and he requires Ziva's help to dress. When they reach his apartment, through rush hour traffic, it's already late and compelling him to bed requires a reversal of the project that had allowed him to leave.

Ziva cautiously helps him remove his shirt, careful of the covered burns and lines of blackened flesh that crisscross his chest, stomach, arms and back. The electric cattle prod had charred his flesh in horrible patterns of pain. Fortunately, the torture had been confined above his waist. He saysthe burns do not hurt, but not very convincingly and never while meeting her eyes. In due time, however, his clothing is gone and he's finally in bed.

"I'm not an invalid," he protests as she lays him back.

"I know you are not," she assures him, "but you are staying in bed."

He's annoyed, one restraint has been substituted for another. "Zee, you simply can't keep me in bed."

She smiles, beginning to open the buttons of her blouse. "Of _course_ I can."

x

She's not aroused and senses he is not either. It will take a long time for her to separate the abuses of the man who she had thought was Tim from the feelings she has for the real one. Their special retreat on the top floor of Headquarters has been soured beyond recovery by what that monster had done. In her head Ziva can tell the two apart – one is dead at her hand – but in her heart, renewed intimacy with Tim is going to take time.

She doubts that, tonight, Tim is going to be able to manage real intimacy either. Everything he has gone through in the past three days, coupled with painkillers and antibiotics … she knows the spirit can be willing but the flesh is definitely weak.

No, she knows that despite any desire he might have or be able to work up to, kissing and cuddling are the best either of them feels up to. It will, however, keep him in bed where he belongs. And though it has been a long time since she has felt she had to, certainly not with Tim, if he is up to it then she is not beyond a little fakery.

The medications that ease his pain also work against him but their touch is more loving than lustful. She touches him only lightly. There are too few places she can touch him that are not bruised or burnt, covered with a patchwork of bandages and taped white gauze. She's grateful that, sadistic and brutal as his interrogators had been, they had confined their torture to above his waist.

They cuddle upon the bed, their caresses loving but not frantic. He slips down her body, kissing her breast and his cell phone starts to vibrate upon the wooden dresser, the shaking making the entire dresser rumble.

x

Surprise makes him pick his head up from her nipple. "Can't be for me," he mutters, "I'm on disability." He returns to her and the unit stops vibrating. "See?" he asks, the word vibrating against her.

"You do not _feel _very disabled," Ziva sighs as his tongue attacks her again. She arches her back to urge him to more intense effort and the phone starts to vibrate again.

He ignores it, continuing to apply his tongue to Ziva's sensitive nipple, guided by her movements, her own touches and her sighs of increasing pleasure and eventually the phone stops shaking. He continues, his tongue continuing to stroke her as though a bow along a violin string, drawing notes of pleasure from her. His hand slips down her body, past her stomach and the phone begins to vibrate again.

"Oh, for the love of God," Ziva groans, turning away angrily, the mood broken, "answer the damn _phone_!"

x

Truly aggravated, Tim forces himself off the bed, frustration and anger an excellent analgesic. He snatches the vibrating device off the dresser, yanks it open - "Listen you - World War _Three _had better be on or you –!"

/_Timmy_?/ the tremulous voice halts his furious outburst, /Timmy, is that you?/

"Shav?" he can hardly believe it, not that she is calling him but at the utter devastation in her voice, "what's wrong?"

/Timmy, don't hang up! _**Please**_ _don't hang up_!/

"I won't hang up." He's astonished to hear the woman sounding close to tears. He looks to Ziva, who stares at him, romance driven from her head by the concern on his face. "What's wrong?"

/I - I need to see you - _now_! I need to - to _talk_ to you! It's _important_! _Please_!/ She saw him yesterday, knows how wounded he is. If her closeness to tears was astounding, the naked begging goes far beyond that. He can barely picture her in such distress. /Bring Abby. Tell her – tell her I'm calling in that favor. I'll call in _all_ of yours if I have to but please _come_!/

"Of course I'll come," he assures her, reaching for his underwear drawer as Ziva's concerned stare turns to outrage. Shav saw him wounded, half-delirious. If she can still call like this... "Where are you?" He can't manage the tricky feat of dressing while balancing the small phone on his shoulder, doesn't even try.

/Come through the Avenue entrance, I'll meet you between the Hall and the Church./

"Shav, I'm here with Ziva, shall I -?"

/_NO_!/ her frantic exclamation is truly astounding. /Just you two! _Please_! I - I _can't_ tell you anymore - not over the phone!/

"All right," he quickly considers the time if he calls Abby and has her ready for pickup on the fly, "I'll be about twenty five minutes."

/_Thank you_!/

He closes the phone, snatches the underwear, polo shirt and jeans from drawers, the remaining endorphins in his system allowing him not to feel the pain – for another few minutes.

Ziva is out of the bed in an instant, "What is going on?"

"Some kind of trouble, I don't know what." She reaches for her own clothing. "No, not you. Abby and I."

She turns back to him, outraged. "_What_?"

"I don't know what's happening, but she just wants to see Abby and I, no one else."

"_Again_?" Ziva's outrage grows. This is more than her aggravation at the interruption - far more. "Once _before_ you left our bed in the middle of the night because she called, now–"

"Zee, please–"

"You are not even on call, you are on _disability_! She _knows _that! One of the reasons I am here tonight is to keep you from going off on your own. Gibbs gave you an assignment for tonight. If you think I am going to let you go off with your two old _girlfriends_ you just forget it! I finally get _rid_ of Abby after her coming between us all summer and now–!"

"_Zee_!" he cannot believe she has just said that. "It's not like that. She's in some kind of–"

"No! _Go_!" She waves him away, unable to bear any more. She'd found him with O'Mallory at a Summer Festival, looking nothing like any priest she'd ever imagined. Then he - or the Elf Lord Cearbhall - had proclaimed undying love for her - and Cearbhall could not have thought it if McGee had not written it. But this is _too much_, she can endure it no longer. To hell with Gibbs' orders! "_Go _to her - go to _Abby _- just _Go_!" She reaches for her discarded shirt. "But do not expect to find me here when you come back!"


	2. Confession

Chapter Two  
Confession

McGee's face had reflected his astonishment when he'd met Abby. She wears a silver spiked leather collar, her twin pigtails gripped by silver skeletons. Her shirt depicts a silver coffin spread across her chest, above which are printed, in blood red letters, the offer 'Would you like to see what's under the lid?' The shirt is designed in two parts, allowing her to show the curious what treasures are under the lid. It's the same shirt that had so scandalized Dawn Caldwell in Clarkston Lakes, for there is no material under the lid. This outfit is accented by shiny black leather shorts and equally gleaming high leather boots.

She'd been 'clubbing' in one of the less respectable parts of the city when she'd gotten Tim's call and had been unable to change. However, as interesting as her outfit is, his focus is on his friend and her call.

When he pulls up to the curb on New York Avenue beside St. Mary the Virgin Church the sun is just setting. As he and Abby exit the car the glass door leading to the vestibule between the Church and Hall opens, Siobhan framed in the darkened doorway. She holds it open for them, they enter and she locks the door again, the only dim lighting coming from outside. She turns and surprises Tim by hugging him before either can make a move to stop her. "_Thank you_!"

He stiffens, hissing in pain. He's also immensely surprised that even in her distress she doesn't notice. He can't contain the pain, it's too sharp, even against the powerful medications that support him. Since she'd seen his wounds just last evening, what could cause her to forget them? She had utterly missed her best friend's pain. When she releases him and turns to Abby, hugging her tightly as well, both are uncertain how to react to this uncharacteristic display.

"I was so _frightened_ I didn't know what to do!"

x

Over this summer they had known her to be tormented by the murders of two close friends, stalked and almost murdered by a sadistic madman, had her apartment blown up, fearing for the sanity and life of her oldest friend who'd supposedly nearly lost his mind, and as the mad dénouement to this outrageous litany she'd been trapped in an elevator and nearly raped by Dennis Whitney while he was impersonating the captive Tim. None of these extraordinary events had left her as visibly traumatized as she is now.

Tim and Abby look at her closely, the short hallway between Narthex and Church Hall dark save for the streetlights shining in through the glass door to the avenue. The light blue Clerical shirt she wears is freshly unfolded, certainly the first wearing of one of her new replacements of her incinerated uniforms. The attached inch-and-a half high stiff white collar about her throat is stark in the lights from the street. Her gold framed glasses catch those lights that enter through the glass door. Her expression is the most striking, one of carefully contained hysteria.

"Shav, you _knew_ we'd come," he reminds her, wondering why he has to. "What's wrong?"

"I - I hardly know where to begin," she admits shakily, pushing a lock of her fiery red hair from her face.

"The beginning's usually a good place."

x

She stops sharply, realizing how she must appear. She takes a deep breath and holds it, lets it out slowly, tries to sound calm, reasonable, less overcome by the panic. She tries to keep in mind that she is safe now - but she does not believe it. "Come, please," she turns to the glass door to the Hall, pulling a set of keys from the pocket of her skirt, "I'll tell you all about it."

Leading them through the door, locking it behind them, she guides them to the right through the unlit Hamilton Hall. The evening light coming through the high windows facing the garden on their right and the side street to their left provides the only glow. The long, huge room decorated with hanging flags depicting the varied nativities of the congregation is dim but manageable and they traverse the dozens of large, irregularly placed round tables when she whirls suddenly: "Timmy, I'm _sorry_! I forgot!"

"It's all right," he assures her, wondering what could have made her forget the horrible injuries covering the upper half of his body, burns and wounds that she'd seen last evening. "What's wrong?"

"I'm losing my mind!" It's clear she wants to say more, but does not, instead turning to the right corner door leading to the hallway lined by offices, vesting rooms the Sacristy, locking that as well. Only a little light filters into this area from the office on the middle left, and that only escaping through the diamond shaped window carved out of the wood.

Siobhan opens this door and freezes, startled to find George Donaldson seated at his desk at the right wall. "_What are you doing here_?" she blurts out, her voice high. He looks up at her and her guests, surprised at her uncharacteristically frantic greeting.

x

"I work here," the black clad man reminds her mildly. As Rector of the Church, he can hardly imagine being anywhere else. "Hello," he greets Tim and Abby, mildly surprised at their late evening arrival. He knows Timothy McGee from NCIS, having seen him just the evening before. They'd met earlier during the horrific murder investigation of two members of the congregation but had hardly expected to see the bruised and battered agent this evening. He'd thought the man was going to be in the hospital for quite some time.

He doesn't know the other surprisingly attired woman, though from Siobhan's description he can make a well educated guess. The pair is an interesting mix, his casual attire contrasts sharply with the woman's shiny Goth leather.

"No!" Siobhan's voice is still an octave too high. "I mean, why are you here _now_?"

"If you need me to leave," he starts to get up, concluding that she needs the office for something having to do with the young couple.

"No!" she halts him even more frantically. "I mean, no, I'm sorry - it's just that - I mean I–"

"Siobhan, you're coming unraveled."

"God, if _that _isn't an understatement!"

"What's wrong?" Yesterday she had broken down in his arms, telling him the man she had trusted more than anyone in the world had tried to rape her. Last evening, driven to fiery fury, she had driven to McGee's home to confront him. Her rage had been washed away by astonishment when she discovered he had not been the one who had betrayed and hurt her. She had been shaken all day, spent much of the day secluded in the Rectory, but this is so far beyond the devastation she had suffered yesterday that he's afraid for her.

"No, please stay, you should, I mean I have to, that is I–"

"_Siobhan_!" his firm voice slices through her confused distress, and when she focuses upon him he can continue in a more normal tone. "Sit down, take a deep breath and tell us what's wrong. Would you like some wine?" He knows she will refuse the offer, she _never_ drinks it except at the Altar but he asks it to try to focus her.

"Yes, I would very much like some wine."

Now he's truly surprised. "I'll bring you some."

x

He walks past the two silent newcomers, wondering if either comprehends the oddity of her request; wondering if, in her present state, _she_ even realizes it.

Crossing the hallway to the Sacristy, he pours only two ounces of the red wine into a small glass. Returning to the office, finding Siobhan seated at her desk at the far wall facing the door, he sets the glass in front of her and waits expectantly.

"I - please, everyone, sit down." She doesn't touch the glass, her words still fragmented, her attention distracted. She fixes her gaze on her hands clenched tightly before her on the desktop, trying to focus her mind before admitting, "I - I have to talk to you - I _should_ talk to the three of you."

Without a word, Tim and Abby pull seats up before Siobhan's desk, George stands leaning against the edge of his own.

x

Siobhan looks up at the three of them, wishing she could stop shaking. She reaches for the glass, takes a sip of the Sacramental wine, praying for the strength to proceed. Putting down the glass, she presses her hands flat upon the desk blotter, trying to calm herself, trying to at least contain the shaking.

"It's almost Classic," she admits, her shaken laugh tinged with barely restrained hysteria, "I need to make my Confession, and this is Classic. Once to the Church," she nods at George leaning against his desk, "once to the Loved One" she indicates Tim, then shrugs, looking at Abby, "and once to the Temporal Authorities."

They remain silent, not pushing her. She takes another small sip, puts it down and takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly and praying to know how to tell them. It had made sense when she'd decided to call for help, now the words desert her. She starts to reach for her glasses but stops, doesn't want to hide in blindness. She has to face them.

"I..." she begins softly, shame stealing her voice. She tries again, doing her best to keep her voice level. "I never went to the seventh grade…." She pauses, unsure how to tell it, taking a long moment to organize her thoughts.

"Shav?"

"Yes, Timmy?" she asks, her thoughts broken.

"Well," he says uncomfortably, "as a confession of devastating sin, I was expecting something a little more … devastating?"

She sees Abby glare at him. "Please, Timmy, a chuisle, just let me make my confession in my own way." Her voice trembles, she fights to steady it, finally managing to whisper: "You'll understand."

"Of course, I'm sorry."

She realizes, more reason for her shaking, that in her distress she'd referred to him as 'my pulse', otherwise 'my darling', rather than a phrase for friend. She tries to take another calming breath. It doesn't help. Finally, she decides just to plunge in, crosses herself and prays to the Holy Spirit to give her the words to help her to confess.

x

"My grades at St. Catherine's were good enough, I was considered bright enough, that when I was offered a chance to advance to the eighth grade, skipping the seventh, my family and I took it. They were proud, I was overwhelmed - it was a big difference to adjust to. Fitting in was a nightmare, I simply didn't." She has to hunt for words, unable to believe she'd planned her confession for hours and had had the words then. Now, she stumbles through it, searching for the terms that will reveal her deep shame, her long hidden sin.

Her brogue increases in sharpness with her guilt and shame. She can't stop it.

"When I graduated and went on to St. Francis I did the only thing I could think of - I lied about my age. Not on the records, I always told the truth in the records, but I told everyone - if they ever _asked_ - that I was a year older than I really was. It even made a kind of sense to me back then. Older women lied about their ages and it didn't mean anything, why shouldn't I? I just did it to make myself older, not younger - I was the same age as all my new friends and so I fit in."

"But wait," McGee interrupts, trying to get his head around this admission and wondering where she's going with it, "you're only six weeks younger than I am."

She shakes her head, more ashamed to admit: "I'm sorry, Timmy, I'm a year and six and I am so _sorry_ I lied to you too."

"It's all right." As a 'sin', this is easy to forgive; it changes nothing between them.

"No, it's _not _all right. I was lying to everyone and getting away with it because no one bothered to check. My relations never knew I did it. No one _cared_. It was so easy as a girl because by the time I was in High School all the girls lied about their ages. They did it to get into clubs and get drinks, so I was _still_ fitting in. In the end I just had to tack on _two _years instead of one. Like a lot of girls, when my friends were nearing the age when it was cool to try to sneak into bars I got a phony ID. But I got two - a real phony for 1 year older and a phony phony for 2 years so I could go to bars with my friends.

"I've lived with the guilt of that all these years but at the time I didn't feel guilty at all - except when I lied to you."

She wishes that were the extent of her sin. It's only the base of her shame.

x

She takes another small sip of the wine, seeks between that and prayer the strength to continue. "Then came graduation. I told you, Abby, how I followed my dream and went to Greenwich Village to become a Writer." Abby nods, not about to interrupt. "I was barely 17, three weeks in by graduation. I was a legal High School graduate, but I found that New York was vastly different from Maryland. I couldn't hold onto a job. I wasn't mature by any means. I was a wild, undisciplined, opinionated _teenager_ out to make a place for myself in a world that frankly didn't give a damn.

"Times got hard pretty fast but I wouldn't go back home. I had something to _prove_ to everyone: I was going to be the next 'Great American Novelist' and no one was going to stop me. My relations eventually cut me off, thinking that was the best way to get me back under their roof. The last letter I got didn't contain a check, it contained a train ticket and in a fit of rage I tore it up.

"The best jobs I could get were minimum wage, part time, entry level, but I didn't have the discipline to keep even them. Eventually I fell behind in my rent, then further behind, then further still. Of course, I didn't have to worry about my looks - when you're seventeen looks are everything - since I wasn't eating too much at the time." Tim notices again how sharp her brogue grows, increasing in depth with her tension.

"I was just about on my last legs when I was _Discovered_. I was in a Café in Greenwich Village, a few blocks from home, actually trying to bum half a sandwich from anyone who would offer it when this Photographer called me over. He'd liked my looks and said he could offer me a modeling position. He'd take some pictures of me, _pay_ me. I never really heard much more after he said that magic word. Actually, when he said I could make a thousand dollars for a couple of hours work I was ready to fall at his feet. He asked me how old I was. Of course I said 'eighteen'.

"He took me to his loft, it was just a few blocks away from my own place, and all the time I was thinking 'back rent', 'food', 'clothing', '_money_'!

"It turned out there was very little clothing involved."

She lets the depth of this sink in, seeing in her friends' faces that she doesn't need to elaborate.

x

"There was a bit for me to think about, but in those days I wasn't much of a thinker. He promised the pictures were for magazines that don't even get published or distributed in Maryland. I think you can have some idea how bright, or how desperate, I was that I _believed_ him.

"Well, it took all day. I was nervous at first, but I kept telling myself that as a Cheerleader I shook my 'pom-poms', if you get my meaning, for four years in front of hundreds or thousands of horny fans so this wasn't all that much different." She starts to hide behind her hand, forces it back down, forces herself to continue.

"Anyhow, I gradually got more and more relaxed, eventually I didn't mind doing it. He must have shot hundreds of pictures and I was getting excited as the day wore on. Gradually the pictures became more and more explicit–"

x

Her voice breaks. She looks away, unable to meet their eyes, tries to fight the tears that want to break through, feels the hot blush of shame and can endure it no longer. She removes her glasses so she can't see her friends, can't read anything on their faces.

She can't see them now, can't see anything but an indistinct haze of lights and darks and it doesn't help. She doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to admit it and she feels her face get hotter. She hunts for and takes the last of the wine, wishing there was more.

"They got explicit," she admits shakily, putting down the glasses, her voice strangled to a whisper. "Explicit. He got me to ... to _touch_ myself, to put - to put things into…" she can't say it. Gasping for breath, she turns away from their silence. Being unable to see them isn't enough; she can't bear to look at them. She fights hard for control, but it's many long moments until she regains enough to speak again.

"Then he told me there were other magazines, _special_ magazines that pay special prices for special girls. I was so worked up, so not thinking anymore, that when he told me I could make _five thousand dollars_ I–" She stares toward her clenched hands, an indistinguishable haze of lightness against the dark green of her desktop blotter, unable to look up.

"I let him tie me up," she whispers, feeling her hot face heat more. "Over and over again, while he snapped roll after roll, I let him tie me up. Always he untied me and did it differently, picture after picture after picture - all I could think about was that I was going to be _Rich_!"

She takes a deep breath and it's loud in the silence. She looks up, the room is such a blur she can't find her friends; doesn't want to find them. If she could see them, she couldn't say it. "Then came the last set, I was tied to the bed, my arms and legs to the posts, tight ... but when he was done he didn't untie me. He put in a fresh roll, set the camera to automatic and he - he –" she feels tears slip down her cheeks and wipes them away. She doesn't want to break. She won't cry in public, even if she can't see them.

She won't _cry_.

"I - I let him do it. I _let_ him! I was so excited I let him do everything he pleased, and anyone who could see the pictures could tell I was _enjoying_ every second of it."

x

She wipes her eyes, unable to say any more. She gropes for the glasses, forces herself to put them on, to see her friends. When the room reappears they're silent, attentive, sympathy etched upon their faces. But hard as it is to see that, she still has the worst to tell them.

"When he untied me I was content, happy … and he gave me a check for only two hundred fifty dollars.

"I asked where the thousands were, he told me it was the scale fee, to come back tomorrow for the rest when he'd developed the film and he'd pay me everything." She wipes tears from her eyes, can't meet theirs.

"I went back - I went back the next morning and he was furious. He was yelling at me that I'd wasted his entire day and hundreds of dollars in film he couldn't use. He'd checked up on me. He showed me my contract and then scrawled a huge red '17' across the front of it. He made me give back the check from last evening, threatened to sue me for the money he'd spent on film and threw me out."

She takes a deep breath, holds it carefully before she can admit: "I stood on the sidewalk outside his shop in the middle of Greenwich Village and sobbed like a baby. I was humiliated, my dream of Financial Independence shot to hell and scared I would be sued. In the next few weeks I found and lost yet another job, my landlord had had enough of me and I was out on the street in favor of a paying tenant. Finally I was living in a Women's Shelter until I wound up in Brooklyn. I told you about Father Charles at St. John's."

They nod. Abby realizes the men certainly know more than she does. She had learned much of the rest while hiding from Mikel Mawher in Siobhan's former apartment. The story is now complete, the omitted details all filled in.

"That was the last time I_ ever_ lied about my age. From that day on it was the truth. But as truth goes it was too little, too late."

x

She reaches for the empty glass, but stops. She will not ask for more.

"The photographer's name was Trevor Hanson. He never did sue me and I was too stupid to try to confront him and get the pictures back. He'd said they were 'sealed' and I decided I was in no position to be sued for the value of the film or for breach of contract. I figured if they were sealed that was the end of them and I should just take it as a life lesson.

"Like I've said, I wasn't a big thinker in those days.

"I was embarrassed, I just wanted that day to go away - and as the weeks became months it did. Down through the years I never heard from him, over nearly twenty years I figured we'd forgotten each other. That is, until the other day.

"I got here after that incident with Cearbhall," she looks significantly at Timmy. He'd said he doesn't remember the 'Elf Lord'. She'll never forget him. "I found this."

Opening her drawer, she pulls out a plain manila envelope bearing nothing but her name laser printed across the front of it. She extends it to them, neither makes a move to accept it. "You've already touched it," McGee tells her softly, sensing its significance.

"Oh, yes, that's right," it doesn't matter how many fingerprints she gets on it, she had already handled it long before discovering it had any importance as evidence, as had Ellen Meyers, the Church Secretary, and an unknown number of Messengers had. The contents, however, only she and perhaps as few as one other have handled. She pulls the papers out of the envelope, puts the first page upon the desk, close to and turned toward them, keeping the others.

It is a single sheet of plain white paper upon which is laser printed: 'Dear Reverend O'Mallory: Trevor Hanson died five months ago here in Washington, I think you'll be interested in what he left behind. I'll be in touch.'

x

She keeps the other papers pressed to her chest. "Do I _have_ to show these to you?"

"No," McGee answers immediately, for which she is immensely grateful. "Put them back in the envelope, they're privileged information." She slips them back into the envelope, putting everything on the desk.

"I take it," George says from beside her desk, he'd approached to read the paper, "that he's been in touch."

She nods, pulling out another envelope, this one of the white letter variety, one he's surprised to recognize. The return address in the corner contains the Official Seal of the Bishop of the Diocese of Washington with his name and address. "It's real," Siobhan confirms, opening the envelope, "he must have gotten it right from Kimberly's desk."

"Kimberly?" McGee asks.

"Kimberly Delvin, the Bishop's Secretary."

He doesn't ask how the person they're now seeking had access to this stationary. He will find out.

She's about to open the three papers within but then stops. The first two images, in full color, are at the bottom of the first page, she _cannot_ show it. Abby, from her angle able to discern Siobhan's dilemma, rises and bends over the desk. While interposing her body between it and the men, she silently guides Siobhan in folding the paper up from the lower portion, allowing the printed words to be visible but not the images. The other papers Siobhan turns face down, placing her hand upon them. Abby steps aside, telling Tim all he needs to know. "The pictures are scanned and printed."

On the portion the women will allow the men to see, under the official letterhead of the Diocese, is printed: 'It would be a shame for the entire Diocese to see these. I'll be in touch. Don't go to the Police.'

"'Don't go to the Police'", Tim muses. "I wonder if he knows you work for the Navy Police."

"I don't know. I'm too scared to know _anything_ anymore."

x

McGee can see that too well. She'd already suffered more than any one person should in this short summer. For her to be targeted _again _fills him with anger he can barely contain. He concentrates on keeping a calm expression, mask though it is. She doesn't need his rage, she needs his professional strength. "Is there any more?"

She nods, "One more. Late this afternoon, the Sexton found this in one of the pews and brought it in." She pulls from her drawer another manila envelope, again it contains only her name printed along the front of it, and she withdraws a large piece of folded paper. She holds her breath, holds the paper so that her fingers cover one of the images. Steadying herself, she holds the large paper up for the three to see and the room goes utterly silent.

The paper is an imitation of the front page of the Diocesan newspaper, the large bold headline announcing 'Rev. Siobhan O'Mallory Defrocked'. There are two full color pictures framed by 'newsprint'. The left one shows the adult O'Mallory in Liturgical panoply, holding the Eucharist upraised. Beside it is an image of the much younger Siobhan, by no means can it be any other, reclining on pillows. They can only see her face, the rest of the image is carefully covered by Siobhan's fingers. On that younger face is an expression of orgasmic passion. Tim reaches out, pushes it face down to the desk.

x

"What does he want?" His voice is tight, he doesn't want to raise it. He'd recognized her, exactly as he'd known her up until just months before that picture had been taken - and he's utterly offended that this blackmailer would take someone so lovely, someone so loving and–

"He called just before I called you. He wants two thousand dollars - a _month_. The first payment is due on Saturday night. If I fail, hundreds of pictures go to all the Churches, the Bishop's office, the newspapers and tele…" she can't continue. There's no need.

"Shav, where could you _possibly_ get that kind of mon…?" He looks about, sees far more than the room and the answer becomes obvious.

"The Rector's Discretionary Fund," Father Donaldson says tonelessly, "has over eight thousand dollars in it, used to quietly help the Needy. Most of those checks get written to 'Cash' with only the Treasurer and I knowing the beneficiary. The balance is usually ten thousand but this month we've had an appeal. Our Noon Collections average eleven hundred a day, a significant portion in cash. On Sundays we average eleven thousand five to twelve thousand. Our Senior Nutrition Program is sponsored by the Department of the Aging and various neighborhood donors and we serve an average of seven hundred meals a day for a token dollar from each guest. Done intelligently, Marci our Treasurer and I would never notice it."

"I am _NOT_–!" Siobhan erupts, outrage driving her to her feet, but he holds up his hand.

"I know you won't. I'm just saying that, whoever is doing this to you, he knows you _could_."

She tries to rein in her chaotic emotions, to see his side. "What can I do?"

x

"You can start by realizing he's been here," Donaldson tells her. "That picture of you at the Altar is recent. You got your hair cut on Saturday."

She realizes he's right, that she hadn't even considered the point. The image on the paper is how she appears today. A cold hand grips her heart as she sits back down, realizing how close he'd been. He'd been close enough to take her picture, probably with a digital camera without a flash during a Consecration and she, focused on her prayers, had never noticed. She feels the fear mount in her and realizes she's beginning to have another panic attack. She clenches her hand tightly, drives her nails into the palm of her hand, focuses on the pain - only the pain - nothing but the pain…

"You can never pay," McGee declares, barely heard. "Blackmailers are never satisfied, their demands always go up and they never stop. They have to _be_ stopped."

She forces a smile she doesn't feel, forces herself to lilt her voice. "That's why I came to you, NCIS' two greatest Investigators."

"That's very flattering, Shav."

"And very true," Abby quips, gaining a genuine smile from her.

The panic is fading, getting under control, and she never allowed it to show through. 'Gold star for me,' she thinks. "I knew you would help me." She allows her voice to carry all her gratitude.

"Of course."

"And keep it secret," Donaldson interjects.

"No," McGee shakes his head, "that's something we cannot do."

x

Her confidence deserts her, that cold wash of blood again chills her, shows its effect on her face. Seeing her sudden distress, he explains, "I'm on the D.L., but even if I weren't, neither Abby nor I can make use of NCIS resources without authorization. We'll keep the list of those who _have_ to know as small as possible, maybe just Gibbs and the Director, but we _cannot_ work in secret. It just can't be done."

"Oh," she says, deflated. She had hoped … but it had never been reasonable.

x

"Siobhan, what would happen if you head him off?" Abby asks.

"What do you mean?" The question completely derails her.

"Blackmailers depend on their victims wanting their secrets kept quiet. What if you took away his power by making a clean breast of it, so to speak, before he can–?"

"That is _not_ a good idea," Donaldson declares firmly.

"No way," O'Mallory agrees.

"Why? A day of bad judgment in the life of a seventeen year old girl, a stupid mistake deeply regretted, the Spirit of Christian Forgiveness... who'd condemn you?"

"Who'd condemn me?" Siobhan asks, astonishment driving her back into her seat, "who'd _condemn_ me? _Everybody_!"

"I can't believe tha–"

"Abby, this is not NCIS; I am a _Priest._" She draws herself back, tries to reach for a calm voice, tries to sound rational, tries to hold off another attack. "Haven't you been listening to the News in the past few years, all the incidents with Priests and Ministers having been found in 'indiscretions' going back years and just reaching the surface today? Parishes and Diocese suffering shame, having to pay huge sums in recompense, Priests being removed…. Abby, look at me, I'm a woman. I'm a _Woman Priest_! How many of us do you think there are?"

"I - I don't know."

"A few thousand, nowhere near enough, and we must be so very _careful_, twenty times more careful than our male counterparts. I can almost guarantee not a single one of them has ever been convicted of posing nude for porn pictures. They will…." She does not want to think about it, but she has to tell it,

x

"It's not the Diocese or the Church as a whole that worries me, it's the _public_ - and what the Church will _have_ to do in response to the outcry. They can't _not_ act. The Diocese would try to keep it quiet if it could be handled In-House and I would be secure, but that man isn't going to _let_ it be handled In-House. He's going to tell everyone he can, make this a public spectacle and the backlash will be heard all the way to Canterbury.

"If this gets out, 'A': it will create a rift in this Parish the likes of which has not been seen in decades and 'B': I shall find myself eventually removed. Oh, the Diocese will put a great spin on it for the public. They'll announce how I was given therapy, how I'd been forgiven my sins, they'll play up that it was the indiscretions of a young girl, _not_ of a Priest.

"I will, however, very soon and very quietly go from the Curate of one of the largest Churches in the Diocese to a Junior Assistant in a tiny Parish in a suburb of Illinois."

Abby turns to Donaldson, seeking contradiction of this depressing prediction. He nods in confirmation of it.

"I'll do what I can," he assures them, "but this is a fait accompli, they won't be able to do less. In this parish there were a lot of people who didn't like the idea of hiring a Woman Priest. A lot of them left, a lot - like Charlie Morley - bided their time, but this will renew the hew and cry loud and long. The Diocese will ultimately be _forced_ to act. The only uncertainty is how much time it'll take."

Abby stands up, pulls a file folder from Siobhan's desk and empties the contents, then scoops up all the incriminating papers and other envelopes into the heavy flaps, "We'll stop the bastard. I _swear_ we will."

She is about to leave with the papers but Tim is on his feet. "No, we won't 'stop' him," he turns to his old love, "we'll _fry_ him!"


	3. Cry Havoc

Chapter Three  
Cry Havoc

When Tim and Abby leave the Church, Fr. Donaldson locking up behind them, Tim doesn't go to his car but turns right, walks down the avenue and around the corner. Abby, surprised at this diversion, has little choice but to follow. By the time she reaches the corner he is several yards away, walking rapidly. "Tim?"

He stops abruptly and lets her catch up, but when she does she's surprised by the naked rage on his face. She'd known he'd be mad, she's mad too, but he seems seconds away from exploding. Unable to think of anything to do to help, she puts her arms about him, far more cautious of his injuries than the distraught Siobhan had been.

"God, McGee, it's like hugging a tree!"

"You can't make me feel better, Abs, not this time," he says tightly. "I'm too _mad_!"

"This isn't for you, McGee, it's for me. When you get steamed like this it makes me all hot and wet."

Astonishment shatters his rage. "_What_?"

She smiles up at him. "Worked, didn't it?"

Thinking it over, feeling slightly less furious, he has to admit that: "It did, kind of - but _not a lot_," he insists. She hugs him a bit tighter, running her arms up and down his back, cautious of his injuries.

"I know, you're still all big and hard and … oooo, I'm getting turned _on_."

"Abby, I know what you're doing - and thank you – but it won't work."

She leans back so she can see him, smiling an infectious smile. "I know, but left to yourself you'll probably break your fist on that half ton block of marble beside you."

He feels more anger slip away as he is forced to admit, "Probably."

"This is so much better, isn't it?"

"I guess so," he concedes.

"I know so. You think better when you're not mad, so just keep hugging me. That wall's so hard and I'm so soft and moist and..."

He pushes her away. "All right, enough."

"Party pooper," she 'grouses', withdrawing, but there is no regret in her smile. "Now that you're not going to go all 'warp core breach' on me, what are we going to do?"

"Do?" he can hardly believe she asked that, "you're going to your lab to lift fingerprints and so on. I'm going to my computer and keeping my _promise_."

"No can do, fearless leader. I can wake up Captain Centrifuge and Major Mass Spectrometer, but you're on the D.L."

"I'll _get_ it done," he declares.

"Yeah, how?"

"_Will you let me worry about that_?"

She realizes she has gone too far and undone all the good that hugging him had accomplished. "All right," she whispers, backing away, looking downward.

He feels like a heel for losing his temper with her, "Abby, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to …." But then, bending to find her face, he sees her smile, "You did it to me _again_!"

She looks up, still smiling, "I've got a million of them. Admit it, McGee; you're a helpless pawn in my hands."

"If I admit it, will you stop?"

"Sure -."

"Then I admit it."

"- until we get to the car."

He sighs, shaking his head in defeat. For the first time he can recall, he doesn't mind losing.

xxx

Tim and Abby are silent for most of the trip to the Navy Yard, each left to his or her thoughts. It's not until he pulls his car around to the side entrance off Secard Street, to the secured entrance closest to Abby's lab, that he can think of anything appropriate to say. "Abby, I'm sorry."

"Come on, McGee, what do you have to be sorry for?" Actually she can think of two or three things, but doesn't want to put words into his mouth, not now. He sits silently for several moments longer before admitting,

"I don't know. This whole thing has got me so mad I'm taking things out on you. I dragged you away from your clubbing. I walked out on Ziva tonight when she was trying to keep me from going out when I should be in bed - in the hospital. I dropped everything when we were - I can't even tell you what we were–."

"I think I can guess," she tells him with a lascivious smile.

"Yeah, well…."

"You really don't get it, do you, McGee?" she asks, her hand on the door handle.

"Get what?"

She opens the car door, gets out and closes it. Then she leans in, looks at him through the open window. "Let me know when you do," she tells him, turning away with particular satisfaction. She lets herself in through the locked door to the emergency stairwell that will lead downward to her lab as Tim stares at her, mystified.

xxx

Michelle Lee presses the button at the door to the third floor offices of 'Kendra Little, Esq.', waits a moment until the buzz sounds, then enters the office. Even though it's late evening, there are supposed to be several people in this office. She's gratified, however, to find Kendra is the only one present. "Blessed Be," she greets her Mentor, closing the door.

"Blessed Be." Kendra greets her Wiccan Sister in return. The black woman kneels at the far side of a six foot square black carpet, evidently having just moved a chair against the wall, and secures the feet to the edge of the carpet, preventing the edge from curling up. She rises to face the Investigator. Between them, just beyond the low partition separating the Reception Area from the main offices, the six square foot black velvet carpet is decorated with two large concentric circles, within which is delineated a white star of five points, the uppermost one reaching toward the partition.

Kendra Little, in addition to being an Attorney licensed to practice Criminal Law in Maryland, Virginia and the District of Washington, is the High Priestess of Rising Star Coven.

Michelle opens the partition and steps through onto the carpet, actually able to feel the charge through the sanctified carpet as she enters this sacred place. The Circle is not yet cast, but hundreds of such castings have left their remnant behind for those sensitive to it.

"I'm glad you're early," Kendra tells her. "I wanted to talk to you before the others get here. I spoke several times to Ken and some of the others, enough to know how a vote will go. Several of us met with your friend Megan, and I'm sorry, but we've decided to reject her Petition."

"I'm not surprised," Michelle admits with no sense of loss. Megan Wood had appealed to her, during the Investigation into the murder of PO Michael Kane, for admission into the Coven. "I brought her Petition because she asked me to, but I didn't think she had much chance. She doesn't have the best judgment."

"That's what we felt. She is, of course, free to apply to any other Coven or Gathering. We just didn't feel she would fit into Rising Star."

"No, but that's not why I'm early."

"No, I was hoping you would help me set up."

Michelle smiles, "Of course," but as they start unpacking the wooden box on the closest desk, she admits, "I was hoping to ask for your help before the others arrive."

The older woman regards her closely, her gaze discerning. "You want to ask for something special, but not openly."

"You scare me sometimes, like you can read my mind."

"Not your mind," the High Priestess tells her, "but your face and body language. As a Federal Agent, you should watch that."

"I know, I try."

"What is it you want? Power?" It's more of a running joke than a reality. Those who are into Wicca as a means of such personal gain do not advance far.

"Not exactly, but maybe that's the best word after all. You know I've tried to focus more on Healing," she lets the capital have its say, "but it still tires me so much. Sometimes when I try to ease someone's pain I'm left exhausted instead. I recently – I really needed to be able to relieve someone's pain without touching him, but I can't. I was hoping to learn how to do it, and to do it better without it taking so much out of me."

x

Kendra pauses and sets down the glass enclosed candles she'd taken out of the box onto the table, using the seconds to try to phrase her answer. "Michelle, those are things that I told you will come in time. The more you practice the more you can do, quicker and with greater power, but there is no shortcut there any more than in anything else. Healing is a misnomer; witches cannot heal with a touch, though we may speed things up. In time you'll learn how to do that, when you're _ready,_ and you won't be able to predict when any more than I can. An injury that takes six weeks to heal from we might get down to four, two if we are really lucky - but it is the Goddess working through us who does the work." She picks up a long lighter, ignites the fist candle and puts it in the appropriate position on the carpet.

"Your focus has always been in healing and that's commendable. However, whether you use your own strength, ambient power, the strength of another person or the power of the Goddess working through you, _practice_ is what you need. You can only progress when you learn how to use your talents. It is not power you need. Your Athame," she indicates the blade in the leather sheath at Michelle's waistband, "is the repository and focus of your power and will help but you cannot always get to it, particularly at work where you're most likely to need its aid." She lights another candle and places it.

"This is not like storing up power within you like a battery. You need more practice and control, improvement of your technique. You have, this minute, all the _power _you need. You have to learn how to handle it, to focus it, better. You open yourself, you allow the Goddess in so she may work through you, but if you would achieve the success you seek you must do far more." She places the third candle, then straightens and fixes the smaller woman with intense eyes.

"Inner power, the tapping and channeling though yourself the power of the Goddess, is a matter of skill more than power. It is not enough for you to open yourself to the Eternal, you must _become _the Eternal. It is not enough to _invoke_ the Goddess; you must merge yourself and become one being, one spirit, one flesh with her. When you call upon her, you must become her."

"I do try."

Kendra shakes her head. "That is why you fail, because you try." She's half-disappointed at the blank look she receives. "You must not try, you must do. Open yourself to her more than you would open yourself to a lover. You must become one flesh. It is more than allowing her into you, or you into her. You must become.

"Then, if healing is your goal, you will work miracles."

xxx

All through the trip home Tim ponders Abby's cryptic remarks, but by the time he reaches his apartment he has to admit that he has not yet figured her out and that he probably never will. The woman had been a mystery to him since he'd met her, and despite their long and tumultuous relationship he doesn't hold very high hopes of that ever changing.

As he lets himself into his apartment, he decides he really doesn't want to be here, but he has to be if he's going to keep his promise to Gibbs. He'd much rather work at his desk, but he's pushing the limits of his grace as it is. If he's not careful, he could find himself forcibly restrained on a hospital bed. There may be much to be garnered by linking his system with that at his desk at work, but as he looks around the apartment it is very empty, though only one thing is missing.

Ziva.

She'd been angry with him, jealous beyond all reason he could see. He had been focused on helping a friend in trouble, and had been appalled that she had seen - had read into it - far more implication than was justified. So focused had he been that he couldn't see her side, or even that she _had_ a legitimate side.

Now, looking about the empty apartment, he knows she'd been good to her word. From the moment he'd unlocked the door he'd known she was gone.

He had not realized, until this moment, how much it hurts.

He calls her cell phone, her home phone, but all go unanswered. He has never known her to be out of touch - when there was no trouble – at least by her own choice. This time she is, but he realizes this time the trouble all comes from him. She sees his name on her Caller ID and she's not answering. He also knows he has two choices, wear her down or let her cool off - hopefully by morning.

Reluctantly he chooses the latter, even while admitting it never works.

xxx

Michelle Lee turns over on her bed and reaches out for the man beside her, not wanting to disturb him but needing his touch. From the darkness he reaches out, embracing her.

"Did I wake you?" she whispers softly, unable to see anything but blackness.

"I couldn't sleep," the whispered words drift back to her.

In the darkness, the dim red numbers on the clock beyond him, 2:51, seem bright with accusation. "How _are_ you?" His question goes to the core of her sleeplessness.

"It was just a bad dream," she tries to leave it at that.

"Tell me." After a very long time Jimmy says it again, more softly, more coaxingly.

"I was back there again," she admits. "They were _hurting _me again."

"Did they rape you?"

She pulls back an inch, still unable to find him. "I _told _you 'no'," she says aloud, more sharply than she wants. She can't think of that, or deal with the consequences - possible consequences - to their relationship.

She'd told him 'no' twice, Agent DiNozzo three times, Special Agent Gibbs twice, Director Shepherd once, Officer David once, Abby once. Why do men have to hear it more often for it to sink in? Why don't they hear it the first time? She hadn't had to say it to Tim because he had been there but she's sick of saying it!

She's sick of _lying_!

x

He doesn't answer, his silence finally drawing her out. She comes closer again, only wanting - needing - to be held.

In an attempt by Natasha Klein and her cronies to force Tim McGee to surrender the Delphi Code, they had stripped and tortured her. They'd raped her until she'd passed out. She'd sworn Tim to absolute secrecy.

They'd only succeeded in seemingly breaking McGee with the threat of raping her with an electric cattle prod, searing her flesh with the high voltage weapon. Having endured two days of torture, particularly from this weapon, he'd 'broken' rather than allowing this. But he had given up the Doomsday Code instead, which had led to the collapse of the plot and their rescue.

She'd sworn McGee to secrecy regarding all that had been done to her, but that had not helped the pain, or the humiliation that, when they were rescued, she had been found tied and naked.

"I just can't stop thinking about it," she admits from within the safety of Jimmy's arms. She'll admit to the torture - _never _to the gang rapes.

"What can I do?" She had not wanted to make love, she still hurts too much, but they had held one another close at her so needful plea - hardly necessary but significant in that she had made it - but it had not been enough.

"I don't know," she confesses. "Don't leave me?"

The plea is so heartfelt he's astonished, pulls back an inch, wishing he could see her.

"'Chelle, I will _never_ leave you."

xxx

Tim McGee sits down with a sigh at his desk at NCIS Headquarters, deeply aggravated, and ignores the Gamma Shift Agents working in the surrounding cubicles. The sun is still not up - will not be up for hours - but he can't rest and can't endure trying to work from home any longer.

Three hours using his home computer to access his NCIS computer had proven all too well that he was wasting his time. There's plenty of information available on Trevor Hanson, all of it ending with his death.

It had been an unspectacular one; he'd gone to bed and had never awoken. The autopsy had confirmed what his physician had already known from long treatment. A heart strained by a sedentary lifestyle and failing for years had ultimately given up. He'd left a Will, most of his assets and Insurance had gone to his sister in Minnesota, but an inventory of those assets did not include what had to have been a massive store of photographs and negatives. Apparently those had simply been ignored.

Apparently.

Hanson had been a free lance photographer specializing in nude photography, and to the best Tim could determine his activities had been legal. His client list included over two hundred publications, far more than Tim really wanted to track down on his home interface.

Much as he hated to admit it, working third-hand like that was intollerably slow. He couldn't stop t inking of Shav and every slowdown flared his frustration. Transfers that occur in nanoseconds were taking milliseconds, and he felt every one of the - to him - noticeable delays.

If he was going to do the in-depth analysis he needed to do, there was only one way to do it. He had to ignore orders and come in.

On arrival he found what Zee had told him. His computer, upon which he'd lavished a lover's care and attention, had been replaced. When he'd heard why from one of his Gamma shift colleagues, he had been furious. Now he settles for just burning.

xxx

When Gibbs arrives at 0700 carrying his usual large cup of coffee, he's surprised to find Tim McGee at his desk, and is even more surprised at his appearance. The man is dressed far too casually in blue polo shirt and jeans, unshaven, hair mussed, not looking in any way McGee-like. "McGee, what are you doing here like this?" Heavy in the question is the reminder that, since he is on Disability Leave, he is not supposed to be here at all.

He has an assignment, at his own request, one to be accomplished from home.

"I'm working with Abby to track down a lead in a case."

"_Abby _called you in?" She should have known better.

"I called her in." Before the surprised Supervisor can ask any more questions McGee, firmly recalling his promise to hold the matter secret, turns to him. "Boss, can I speak to you - in the conference room?" His tone says clearly he doesn't mean the second floor.

"You know the way." He brings the cup with him, certain he's going to need it.

x

Yesterday Lee ignored her instructions, even if she was able to present a reasonable justification for being here. Now he has McGee here, also disobeying orders. 'Maybe I'll just move my desk in here. Then again, so many bosses have to deal with call-outs. I can't _keep _them out.'

Once on the traveling conference room, McGee shuts it down. Gibbs comes barely an inch from his face and says in quiet and deadly tones: "All right, McGee, let's have it."

McGee gives Gibbs the entire story, tightly condensing detail from the moment of the initial call for help through his efforts to identify a suspect by tracking known associates of the late Trevor Hanson.

"And you haven't found anything."

"Not yet," Tim admits.

Gibbs shakes his head. "She should have come to us. She's NCIS. We take care of our own."

"She's scared, Boss. If this gets out, she can lose a lot more than her job at St. Mary's."

Gibbs can well appreciate what the woman has to lose. Months ago her Diocese, if she had revealed the identity of the false penitent who had been 'confessing' to killing the parishioners of St. Mary the Virgin Church - if she had known who he was - would have Tried, convicted and Defrocked her. What would they do if this secret became public?

"Are you up to returning to duty?" Looking at the way the younger Agent stands, how he'd walked to the elevator, Gibbs knows the true answer already. He'd only given Tim the courtesy of asking.

Tim knows better than to try to lie. "No, boss." He's prepared to be shown the door.

"All right, you do your search, I'll square it with the Director and the rule book. But you do _not_ act on anything you learn. You give it to me and NCIS takes care of it - you got me?"

"Got you, boss."

Gibbs snaps the Emergency switch and the car doors open. As Tim follows the Senior Agent back into the bullpen, the other Agents are already at their desks. His eyes meet Ziva's. There is no welcome in the woman's smoldering glare.

x

Tim returns to his search, not looking at Ziva, but he can feel her eyes burning through him like lasers.

He decides the best place to begin his search, now that the sun is up, is at the Diocesan office. The letter, false as it was, had been written on official stationary; both O'Mallory and Donaldson had confirmed that. There is only one place it could have come from.

He does not, however, have the opportunity to leave unchallenged. When he takes his shield and Sig from the side drawer of his desk and stands up, Ziva is leaning over his desk, her voice so quiet he can barely hear her. "I want to apologize."

She could not have said anything more surprising. He distinctly remembers her rage because he walked out on her. "You don't have anything to apologize for."

"Yes, I do. I was petty and vindictive and immature. I did not take your calls last night - I knew you were calling from your apartment - because I was angry. But then I went back to your apartment last night to make up and you were not there."

"It had to be after one o'clock, I was already here."

"I figured that out." That had been plain when she had walked in. Looking at him now, she cannot miss the fact that he had spent the night here. "I also know that since you were with Abby seeing O'Mallory that you were not–" She cuts herself off sharply. It will do no good to say what she had been thinking he had been doing, not if she wants to try to smooth things between them. "I just really want to know what it is I was being jealous over."

For a moment he is caught short. He'd promised to keep Siobhan's secret limited to those who had to know. But he also knows that, if he is going to keep peace in their relationship, he has to meet Ziva's gesture of reconciliation with one of equal faith. "I'll tell you."

x

Rather than doing so here, he stands up and walks out of the bullpen, compelling her to follow. He would prefer to take her to their private sanctum on the top floor, but the story she had told him of what had occurred with Dennis Whitney has explained why the spirit of that place has been irrecoverably spoiled. He doesn't want to take her to their 'conference room'. Too many uses of that facility - especially for the time this will take - will seriously strain the patience of every Agent in the building. He settles for the illusion of privacy to be had in the area under the stairs leading to the MTAC balcony and other offices.

"I promised to keep this secret," he begins quietly. "Only those who absolutely need to know were to be told. Abby because she needs to do the forensics, Gibbs because he's Gibbs, the Director if she really _has_ to know. Not Tony, not Michelle, not _anybody_ else."

"I understand."

He checks over his shoulder, they are alone. "You must swear you will never tell anyone about this."

"Of course I swear!" She is angry that he would feel he has to say it - twice.

He holds up his hands to halt her outrage. "Years ago, when she was 17 and in the U.S. an _underage minor_…"

xx

"Wow," is all she can say when the story concludes. "Certainly I shall say nothing. What help do you need?"

"I'll let you know. I'm trying to track down whoever had access to those pictures, but so far it's an empty trail."

"I will do what I can. But Tim, you should go home."

He sighs, frustration taking its toll, "Zee, I really need to-"

"No," she shakes her head, "you have been at this since last evening, and not only are you tired but …" she reaches for the lapel of his polo shirt, gives a slight tug and wrinkles her nose expressively, then trails her fingertips along his rough neck, "you _really_ need to go home."

It doesn't take a sledgehammer to drive the message into his tired and stressed brain. "You're probably right."

xxx

Among the perfectly precise rows of white headstones in Arlington Cemetery, Virginia, at 10:30 in the morning, the family and friends of Lt. William Delaney Jr., USMC are gathered in seats about the flag draped coffin. He had been killed nine days ago by an IED while on patrol in Afghanistan. Aligned on the left side of the coffin his remaining family, son William III, two daughters Melody and Cynthia, are seated on white folding chairs near the side of the grave.

The coffin rests above a frame of golden metal, suspended by two straps over the open grave. Green Astroturf has been spread outward from the lip of the grave, disguising bare earth. Beyond the foot of the casket are rows of chairs. In the front row is seated Marine Brigadier General Milton Harriman and other highly ranked Officers, all attired in Dress uniforms. There are over fifty other people in the chairs ranging from the foot of the coffin, but surrounding the mourners are two men and one woman standing at three points of a strategic triangle. Their eyes search everything in the surrounding area. Each has an earwig discretely in their right ear and small microphones strapped to right wrists, allowing them to keep in touch with others at the cemetery gate.

Twenty feet beyond the crowd, a similarly equipped woman stands watching the perimeter and, in particular, the distant gate. She carefully checks all who enter and notes their destinations. These four are NCIS Special Agents assigned to protect General Harriman, in charge of 'Operation Gamma' in the Mid-East, during his stop-over at this ceremony. As the ranking Officer locally, Harriman considered it his duty to be present, to pay proper respect to this fallen soldier.

As the white vested Priest concludes his Prayers of Committal, the Marine Honor Guard steps forward, the four men in immaculate black uniforms moving in precision formation, the sun gleaming off brass, silver and gold. Under the watchful eyes of their Lieutenant, two take hold of the corners of the United States flag that covers the coffin, raise it and fold it once across its length, then again. The Guard at the stripe end then folds the end over in a triangle, reversing the pattern over and over until he meets his fellow at the blue field. He holds the folded flag while the other tucks the remaining inches into place, then he executes an 'About Face', salutes his Lieutenant and presents him the folded flag. The Lieutenant left faces and carries the flag, with all due dignity, to the son of the deceased officer, who rises to receive it.

"On behalf of the President of the United States and a grateful Nation," the man says formally, "please accept this flag in honor of your fallen father." He gives the young man the flag and salutes. The man holds the flag in his left hand and returns the salute. The Lieutenant then right faces to his team. The men take station in precision form along the side of the grave, facing the family, never having had to check their line. The deceased officer's daughters rise alongside their brother, the Honor Guard salutes the family who return the gesture. Then the men left face and, with their Lieutenant in the lead, march away beyond the head of the grave.

A single member of the Guard remains at the foot of the grave, and as he raises a gold bugle to his lips, all present rise. The slow mournful notes of 'Taps' fill the air and one of the Funeral Directors discreetly touches, with his foot, a switch in the corner of the golden frame to start the motors which will lower the casket into the earth.

The explosion destroys everything, thunder startling people hundreds of yards away, the fireball ascending into the sky like an erupting volcano.


	4. Let Slip the Dogs of War

Chapter Four  
Let Slip the Dogs of War

Leroy Jethro Gibbs looks across from his desk to Tony DiNozzo, about to call for an update when a loud bell sounds briefly, attracting everyone's attention. When it stops, Director Jennifer Shepherd's amplified voice fills Operations. "Condition Beta: All Personnel report to MTAC _immediately_."

The succinct command is powerful in its brevity. Looking upward toward the elevated platform, the agents see the Director's assistant, Cynthia Sumner, looking down expectantly.

No one delays in responding to this summons. 'Condition Beta' is just one step below a Disaster Alert. As the men and women in the main room hurry to the stairs, others surge in from adjacent departments. It will be fortunate if MTAC can hold everybody. Cynthia holds the door open so they need not delay in using the Iris scanner.

Shepherd feels as though she's in the center of a growing storm as the moments tick by and all the agents in the building attempt to enter the theater-like room. Scores will remain outside but the news will spread quickly. Soon one would only need to turn on a television set to know nearly as much as she does now.

MTAC is dominated by a huge video screen operated by a team of technicians seated at the left wall beyond two sloping ramps that lead from the outer elevated platform down to a carpeted common space. Both doors are in use, allowing the room to fill quickly, using every inch of available space beyond an imaginary line six feet back from the screen. There are three paired rows of four chairs set in a staggered series between the two ramps, all facing the viewscreen and the few independent screens lined in a tower to the view screen's left.

No one sits in the staggered rows of chairs, jamming into the space on each row shoulder to shoulder, nine across each row of four chairs, the rest finding standing room on ramps, along walls or where they may. All the agents feel the tension Jennifer cannot help but radiate as more and more Agents respond to her summons. It is the first time in months that she has met with so many Agents simultaneously and this is enough to keep most of them on alert.

x

When the last of them squeezes through the upper door, stopped by the press of bodies on the ramp, Cynthia can no longer reach the open. Jennifer, standing near the Control Technicians, raises her voice. "Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please." She secures that immediate attention. "What you are about to see took place about twenty minutes ago," she signals the Operator and the huge screen comes alive.

The color image is an aerial view of devastation, a crater in the middle of a field surrounded by debris, still and mangled bodies and eerily quiescent rows of white headstones, except that those closest to the devastation are toppled or shattered. Most of the twisted bodies are not yet covered by white cloths, numerous ambulances and other Emergency vehicles are scattered about the scene and a voice issuing from the speakers fills the room with words of dread import.

" -plosion killed twenty one people and severely injured more than thirty more, eleven of whom are critical. Thus far there is no explanation for this tragic event. If you are just tuning in, an explosion in Arlington National Cemetery occurred during a funeral for William Delaney Jr, a fallen Marine killed in Afghanistan, has killed twenty one people. Included in the dead are the remaining members of Delaney's family; son William the Third, daughters Melody and Cynthia as well as Religious and Military personnel. Over thirty more mourners were injured, many of them critically. Early reports of the dead include Marine Brigadier General Milton Harriman and other Marine personnel. We will keep you advised of further developments as we receive them."

Jennifer gives a curt signal, and into the silence that follows as they continue watching the scene unfold from the vantage of the hovering helicopter, her words are somber. "Special Agents William Davis, Michael Carver and Catherine Marcos are dead."

x

Shepherd, seeing its effect on unguarded expressions, gives them a moment to absorb this shocking declaration. The three were well known and equally loved. "Special Agent Janet White was on the perimeter and was injured by shrapnel. She has been taken to Virginia Hospital Center, her condition is 'serious'." She wishes she could give more time for the wash of restrained emotions. She doesn't have the time to give.

"The losses to the Corps are significant with the death of Brigadier General Harriman and many of his staff. He was in command of 'Operation Gamma', which is an aggressive stand against terrorist forces overseas. Its purpose is to, at a classified but imminent time, strike hard against every overseas terrorist cell, base and training camp identified or being identified. It is to be a multi-national strike which may now have to be delayed. Harriman's part in this has not been officially acknowledged by the Corps, yet it would be naiveté of the worst kind to believe Al Qaeda and others could not know of it.

"This incident is believed to be related to the three investigations already under way, of which I gave many of you details and assignments yesterday. Gibbs, your team is to interview Janet White as soon as she is lucid. Joswig,"

"Ma'am," the black haired woman responds crisply. Though she is normally on Beta shift from 1600 to midnight, she and her team had been called in early to assist in the previous delegation of investigation assignments.

"Get your team out there, Ducky and Palmer are already on site with Forensics Team Two. Find out how the _Hell _someone managed to smuggle that bomb into Arlington." Looking at the picture, they can tell the device had been appallingly powerful. If White was in position, that perimeter was no less than twenty feet beyond the far edge of the gathered mourners, yet the blast seriously injured her.

"Ryson, the Honor Guard - except for the bugler - made it beyond the kill zone of the explosion and were not as severely injured. Get to the hospital, see if they saw anything out of the ordinary."

"Yes, Director."

"We need to catch these bastards, and we need to do it fast."

No one can manage to look away from the helicopter's vantage.

xx

When Gibbs enters the bullpen after his conversation with Director Shepherd he is ready to have his team move out when he notes an unexpected absence. "Where's McGee?" He recalls he did not see him in MTAC, not that he had been looking.

"I asked him to go back home," Ziva reports. She stands up under Gibbs' deadly glare.

"Yeah," DiNozzo concurs, wanting to defend her, "the Probie was getting a little ripe."

"Ripe and ready, Tony," McGee assures them as he enters the bullpen from the opposite side. He is freshened, clean shaven and wears pale slacks, a sports jacket about two shades darker, white shirt and tie and smells faintly of pine. Catching Gibbs' curious expression he explains, "I just went down to the gym for a shower. I keep a change of clothes in my locker. After what happened at the car wash two years ago, I thought it best to always keep prepared."

"Good thinking." Gibbs had told him back then to anticipate and is glad the man followed his advice.

"Your locker must be a pretty scary place," DiNozzo says, noting the crispness of the pressed clothes.

"You could not lose a moment, could you?" Ziva asks, harking back to their private conversation.

"No."

"McGee, you're out of this _for the moment_, but stick close. Your Disability Leave is being cancelled, so do whatever you have to do quickly. Gear up!"

As the Agents gather their equipment, McGee approaches Ziva. "What's happening?"

"They really need a loudspeaker in the shower."

xxx

Martine Joswig leads Melanie Kelman and Patrick Larsen up from their black car parked at the curb of the winding road and into the bloodbath. Kenneth Templeton has remained at the office by the main gate a few hundred yards behind to gather information.

There are more than forty men and women about. Some wear distinctive orange coveralls emblazoned with white NCIS logos, others wear a variety of uniforms; EMS, Cemetery Security, Marine MPs and there are a few suits incongruously thrown into the mix.

Blood and body parts from twenty-one mourners are scattered among the headstones, turning the scene into a nightmare. To breathe is to inhale the nausea, to look is to admit a slice of hell. Over thirty injured people have been evacuated to Medical facilities throughout this section of Virginia.

There are some horrors the mind just protects you from, allowing you to see but not recognize them, allowing you to look away. If you look away, you can deny the horror, you can protect yourself from being tormented by nightmares and waking terrors. Martine and her team do not have the luxury of looking away.

She signals her teammates to spread out, to gather what photographs and evidence they can while she seeks out Ducky by his distinctive fishing hat. She finds him crouching near a toppled white headstone forty feet north of the grave, Palmer at the other side. Between them lies something that is, disturbingly, both charred and raw, red and soft, a shapeless mass her mind refuses to allow her to recognize. The trick of the smell is that, if you can endure it for about twenty minutes your olfactory nerves just give out and you don't smell anything anymore. She hopes it will happen soon.

The same thing cannot be said for sight.

"Ducky."

Mallard looks up, mildly surprised to see her rather than Gibbs, since her shift had ended at midnight. Normally he would be pleased to encounter the woman, but not now. "Ah, my dear, I would wish you a good morning but on this occasion I believe I shall pass." Palmer nods as pleasantly as one might under the circumstances, returning then to the bagging of the unidentified meat.

Her mind still refuses to let her identify the mass as from something human. She knows that, if she forces herself to so identify it, she risks losing her dinner.

"What can you tell me?"

"The explosion originated inside the metal frame, the mechanism of which is intended to lower the casket into the open grave. There are a multitude of metal fragments imbedded into several of the intact headstones, the frame comprised the metallic shrapnel that so devastated all those standing or seated close." He looks about the wide ranging devastation. "I shall be the entire morning and most of the afternoon collecting and identifying remains. The reconstruction of over twenty bodies will be a daunting task indeed."

"Where were Bill and the others?" In respect for her friends, she'll start there. Ducky points beyond the foot of the crater that had been a symmetrical grave to the rows of toppled, broken white headstones.

"Our late colleagues were arrayed left, right and rear of General Harriman's position, Janet," he points further to the right, "was just beyond the end of the seats, twenty feet out and fifteen degrees from axis." It is classic protective alignment and he knows the woman would have already discerned this, it is only for his confirmation that she had asked. He's more concerned by her expression as she searches the field. She's trying to look upon the scene as a whole, while he knows her well enough to know the focus of her thoughts. "Are you going to be all right?"

She turns back to him so suddenly her black pony tail whips around. "There are less than 50 of us, Ducky," Martine says with great restraint that doesn't contain her feelings. She refers to the MCR Teams, but he knows better. "I knew their families, their children–" Her throat tightens, she can say no more.

"How is Janet?" She had been taken to the hospital before he and Jimmy had arrived, but he hopes there is more hopeful news, if only to aid the woman.

"Bad," she forces. "Gibbs and his team are assigned to see her, but I'll be going as soon as I can."

"As shall I."

x

There is no good news to be dredged up and Martine moves away, forcing her attention onto the investigation. Pictures had been taken, and more are. Establishing shots and then the lurid details, details that can no longer be denied, preserved forever in merciless color.

Traversing the field is worse than any nightmare minefield Martine can remember, she must step carefully within the cordoned perimeter. Blood and worse cover everything; the wounded, the dead and the dismembered. She doesn't envy Ducky and Palmer this reconstruction.

The smell is so concentrated here she has to keep from covering her nose, wishing her nerves would just surrender and shut down.

She reaches Melanie Kelman's side at the edge of the grave cum crater. The devastation spreads outward from the grave. Of the coffin and original corpse in the center of the cataclysm nothing recognizable remains. There are very few small fragments that managed to fall into the grave itself after being pulverized by the surrounding explosion, but nothing larger than an inch or so long, toothpick size, exists. Kelman appears to be only standing still. Taking in the entire scene sans camera, measuring tape or anything else, she uses only her eyes. Martine doesn't say anything, waiting for Melanie's assessment. She doesn't have long to wait.

"It was C4," the woman tells her definitely, turning to her boss and holding her light brown hair from her face where the breeze keeps trying to send it, "10.75 to 11 pounds worth, the lateral damage indicates a high explosive. The smoothness of the crater does as well. The shrapnel was propelled at 18,000 miles per hour to get this damage." She has to stop, to push aside the sickening horror. "There's metal imbedded into several grave stones."

Though Melanie scans the area with her eyes, Martine is certain her friend hardly needs to do so again "The crater, at maximum, is ten feet, four inches in length, nine feet seven inches in width, depth ... seven feet two inches. The C4 was in the frame which surrounded the casket and supported it until it could be lowered into the grave. The outward force was 26,400 feet per second, but inward the vortex created by the simultaneous explosions from four sides obliterated the casket. I can see only a few splinters of wood in the earth."

Tiny shards of metal, no more than slivers but devastating for their size and speed, had rocketed outward in every direction, ripping through the helpless mourners an instant before the fireball had seared flesh and bone. The lucky ones had been instantly ripped apart, then fried. Those further away had died more slowly, more painfully. Dozens more suffer from burns and metal driven deep into unprotected flesh.

"Simultaneous detonation?" If it were not so, there would be more damage in one direction, while the other would show the effect of two successive blasts, even if separated by a microsecond. Melanie looks around again, her eyes taking in every detail.

"Simultaneous."

x

"That is _remarkable_," Ducky says from behind Martine. Martine turns and finds the man standing behind her, Palmer having stopped a few feet back. They had been attracted by Melanie's report of precise measurements without tape, visual scanner or any other tool. "You sound awfully certain." It's his polite way of asking 'why are you accepting this without testing it?'

"With Melanie I am." Joswig sees lingering doubt in the man's eyes, even if he's too polite to express it. She turns to the woman beside her. "Melanie, how far is Ducky from you?"

"Five feet, eight and three quarter inches, toe to toe." She answers immediately, then glances at the Examiner's assistant. "Jimmy is eight feet, nine and two thirds inches."

"That is remarkable." Ducky says again, this time more impressed than dubious.

x

Though Martine can see the man is impressed, "I have much better questions." She wants him to realize just what a valuable asset her Senior Field Agent is. She turns back to Kelman and asks quickly: "What is seven hundred twenty four thousand nine hundred thirty seven times nine hundred fifty three thousand six hundred seventy four?"

"Six hundred ninety one billion, three hundred fifty three million, five hundred sixty eight thousand five hundred thirty eight," she answers instantly.

Martine watches the set of Ducky's eyes change. Now he is truly impressed. This talent had never been a secret, it had just never come up. Now that is has, Joswig wants her colleague to fully appreciate it.

"And the square root?"

"Eight hundred thirty one thousand, four hundred seventy six point seven three nine six two five."

"Wow." Jimmy is amazed.

"Multiply that by six hundred thirty nine thousand eight hundred sixty two."

"Five hundred thirty two billion, thirty million, three hundred sixty nine thousand five hundred seventy point -." Martine raises her hand, halting her, turning to Ducky expectantly.

"A lightning calculator," he turns to Kelman. "My dear, that is a remarkable talent."

Melanie just smiles politely. To her it is hardly unusual, no more so than being able to read.

When she'd been a young girl, she had been astonished to discover that not everyone could do simple math or spatial geometry in her head, nor remember the simplest details.

x

"Now I'll show you what makes Melanie so valuable to my team." Joswig glances at the woman for only a moment, searching Ducky's face instead. "Five months ago today, what was Ducky wearing?"

Melanie does not even hesitate. "That was the day of the Garfield stabbing, I saw him twice. The first time he was wearing _this_ white cap, royal blue shirt with tartan bow tie and black trousers, the second button of the shirt's left sleeve was loose. The second time was in Autopsy, he was wearing scrubs." She glances at the younger man. "Jimmy had shaved in the intervening time. Ducky had given him a sotto voce instruction at the scene, but he had nicked himself, left jawbone, three fifths of an inch, canted left thirty degrees."

"Incredible."

"I'll say," Jimmy agrees.

"Now you know why I could retire knowing NCIS is in good hands." At 35, Joswig's hope is far in the future.

"Don't believe her," Melanie counters. "This may be useful, but Marti puts it all together - _she's_ the chief investigator here."

"Okay, lets get back to work," Martine says more sharply than she had really intended. "Let's not forget why we're here," as if any of them could, but her next words are more chilling, "we have _friends_ to avenge!"

x

When Ducky and Palmer return to their own duties, Joswig looks toward the main gate, visible in the distance, seeing Kenneth Templeton approaching. Stepping cautiously, she leaves the area of destruction to meet him.

"Grave was opened yesterday at about 1530 to 1600, they can't be any closer on the time, then Astroturf was laid over the lip of the grave and the frame was laid. This morning, an hour before the hearse arrived, the chairs were set and details checked.

"No one noticed anything different in the frame. It came from the Funeral Home and was assembled here, then left overnight. The control to the motors that start lowering the casket is a foot switch, usually at the right side foot corner of the frame. The pieces interlock, the connections made in the conductive material of the frame itself."

"I don't suppose there's a security tape?"

"There were four watchmen."

His tone says it all, so Joswig does not even bother to ask. Four men to cover an area several city blocks across: anyone who didn't bring a brass band could get in and out undetected.

xxx

Tim McGee steps into the imposing Washington National Cathedral on Mount Saint Alban, the seat of power for more than just the Diocese of Washington. Because it is the Headquarters of the Primate of the Church, it's the seat of power for the country and is it utterly awe-inspiring. He can well appreciate why this tremendous structure had been voted one of the three most beautiful buildings in the United States. But McGee is not in the mood to be awed, he's here to hunt.

On this occasion, however, he has no warrant, no direction. He's working strictly on his own. It doesn't take too much for him to work his way into the outer office, and he has no need to go further. He's not here to see the Bishop or any of the priests assigned here, he's here to see Kimberly Delvin.

As soon as he enters the office, which resembles any other in broad detail but not in fine, the woman seated at the desk greets him cordially. "Yes, sir, may I help you?"

x

Kimberly is not sure what this man's purpose is. A great many come from so many places, in order to see the Bishop on a wide variety of matters. Her job - among others – is to screen the necessary visitors from those who can be diverted to other places and allow her boss to do his work. When the man pulls out a gold shield and ID she's not overly concerned, she sees them occasionally in the course of her duties. She only knows that Timothy McGee doesn't have an appointment and there is probably someplace she can direct him to.

"Our Agency conducts background screening of our agents and employees on an irregular schedule, nothing too complex. I'm here to check on Mother Siobhan O'Mallory of Saint Mary the Virgin Church. Did you know she is employed by NCIS as a Chaplain?"

"Yes, I did. Mother O'Mallory was required to file for permission to accept the appointment."

"Do you know of the status of that request?"

"I can look it up." As she turns to the computer screen to her left, typing the request for information onto her keyboard, McGee looks about, particularly the desk before him. To the woman's right is a four level stack of trays, one containing white sheets with letterheads which have recently become familiar, along with a short stack of white envelopes. Whoever he's hunting would need only moments to steal the papers. All he would require was Devlin's brief absence.

"Mother O'Mallory has been granted a provisional four month clearance to perform those duties, pending a review by her Rector, your Director and this office. If passed, that permission will be subject to annual review and renewal."

"Thank you."

"Is there anything else I might help you with?"

"No, you've been most helpful, thank you. I have everything I need."

xxx

Tim removes his black identifying cap as he enters the vestibule between Saint Mary's and the church hall. The door to his right is just opening, the music of the organ in the loft rising. A black woman clad in cassock and cotta precedes Mother O'Mallory down the three steps, then turns to the green vested woman, her head bowed in an attitude of prayer. Tim recognizes the young Eucharistic Minister from his several visits. He stands aside near the corkboard in the corner, managing to be unobtrusive.

"Blessed, praised, hallowed and adored be our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ in the Sacrament at the Altar and in the hearts of His faithful people," O'Mallory says, raising her right hand, "and may the souls of all the faithful departed rest in peace, Amen."

"Amen." Melanie Velez says quietly, Tim's response even softer as the three inscribe the Sign of the Cross.

Velez holds out her arms to receive the green stole and chasuble and carries the vestments through the hall door, nodding to Tim as she passes.

Now O'Mallory wears her white alb and cincture, the whiteness offset by her fiery hair and the gold glasses that catch the lights of the chandelier.

"Timmy," She greets him with open arms, far more relaxed and happy than last evening. Her embrace is also much more cautious.

"Hi, Shav."

Though she breaks the long hug first, it's clear she's reluctant to do so. "We have a few seconds before Melanie finishes putting out the candles." By tradition, the organ will continue playing until that is done and no one will leave the Church.

"How are you?"

"A lot better than last evening, now that you're here." She had reprimanded herself for giving in to fear, to not leaving everything to God's help. She manages to endure when she calls upon Divine aid, but; "I'm sorry about all that, I wasn't in my …. I was scared."

"I know. That's one of the reasons I'm checking up on you."

Siobhan wants to say something disarming, like 'you've always been a big brother to me' or something equally glib, but she can't. He had always been far more to her and words desert her as she tries to think of something appropriate.

More than ever, she wants many of the things that have separated them over the past few years to never have happened. Even if she would never trade her life for any other, she wishes again she could have shared that life with him.

If only he were not committed to Ziva David, she would say what's really in her–

x

"When you're done I need to talk to you," he says to break her uncomfortable silence. He knows her quite well enough to know what is going through her stressed mind, or believes he does. "I have some questions I couldn't cover last night."

"Like what?" She tries to push aside the personal, to concentrate on their 'business'. It's impossible.

"Just a few details. I was just at the Cathedral, long enough to find out how easy it was for this guy to get a hold of the stationary."

"Does Kimberly know anything?"

"I didn't ask, not this time. With the number of people who have appointments to see either the Bishop or the Primate, I doubt she'll remember any particular person unless we have a description to go with it. We don't even know when he was there. When I have more, if I need to I can go back."

The quieting of the organ interrupts them. There is no time to speak before the first of those who had attended the service comes out the rear door. It doesn't take long to greet the few communicants, but for Tim it's too long.

x

He glances through the glass door leading to the hall; that glance being enough to take in at least fifty people on line for food. When they're alone again in the vestibule, he observes, "I'd have thought there would be more."

"Not everyone who comes for the Nutrition Program comes to Mass. A lot of them aren't even members of the parish."

He can hear nothing negative in her careful tone, but: "Doesn't it ever discourage you?"

She shrugs. "We're here, we provide a service, and we are available to all who need us. We encourage and hope that people will accept the invitation."

"Have you ever had no one? What then?"

"I've said many Masses attended by the Angels and Saints."

"How about Father Donaldson?"

"We alternate." She knows he knows this. "Confessions are from 10 to 11; then the other does the Noon Eucharist – except for Tuesdays when I'm at the office. I do Evening Prayer that day. It's the only day that breaks the rhythm." She refers to her duties at NCIS, where she maintains an office on the fourth floor. "Today's Service was for those who were killed and hurt at Arlington, especially Father Solomon."

"Did you know him?"

Siobhan shakes her head. "He's Roman. I may have met him, but I don't remember. He didn't look familiar when I saw his picture on the computer."

Tim is not surprised that, of all the victims dead and injured, she would focus first on her colleague. NCIS' attention is on their losses as well as General Harriman and his staff. The Marines will be most concerned by those losses and the Honor Guard. The survivors of the Delaney family will be reeling from the extended tragedy of his children's deaths at his funeral. And people throughout the city – and further – will be grieved or worried by the other dead and injured.

There's more than enough grief for all.

x

"So, do you get a lot of visitors?"

"I never know who's going to be here. Today was unusual, we normally have over fifty people but I can never say what it's going to be like. Sundays, Holy Days, we have our regulars and frequently we have visitors, but I can't always predict who will be here. We have a lot of people I can count on, particularly on Sundays. There are some who, if I don't see them, either I'll call them or I'll ask Ellen to, but on the whole I serve whoever wishes to come to God's Altar."

"How often do you check who's here?" A few weeks ago, when he had visited part way through the Service, she hadn't noticed him until they were in this vestibule together.

She considers the question. "At the Sermon I'm speaking to them, at the Confession, the Peace, when I'm giving Communion…"

"What about at the Consecration?"

"Never."

"Not ever?" She had sounded quite definite.

"At the Liturgy of the Word and the Liturgy of the Sacrament, I am totally focused. I also forbid my Acolytes to look at the congregation. Their attention is to be on the Altar or on me, nowhere else. If I need one of them, I want to meet their eyes. Even during my Sermon their attention belongs in the Sanctuary," she smiles, "no matter _how_ bored they might get."

He checks his watch. "Well, that's about all for now. I have to get back, see what progress Abby's made, though everyone's focused on what happened at Arlington."

She's surprised. "But I thought you were going to ask me some questions."

"I just did."

"You did?" She had expected details about her case, the evidence they had taken last evening, further information about contacts from her tormentor, but he just nods, his face showing he considers the conversation over.

"Whoever this guy is hid in a crowd and called no attention to himself, didn't come to Communion and was one of hundreds you greeted on Sunday or some other big Service. He could have gotten any number of pictures and you'd never have noticed."

"Oh."

"And none of your assistants could look at the people, so they wouldn't see anything either."

It's no more than confirming last evening's suppositions, but now he is sure of the conclusion.

He reaches out to her, and she knows he's leaving.

She does not want him to leave.

She embraces him again, mindful of his injuries but not wanting to let go. Though she whispers the traditional "Peace be with you, Timmy," there is little peace within her.

But he draws back to see her, meeting her eyes and saying intently: "Peace be with _you_, Shav."

xxx

"Don't you have those fingerprints _yet_?" McGee demands as he stalks into Abby's lab.

She whirld, unable to believe his entrance. "_God_, McGee, you're even more Gibbs than Gibbs!" She clutches her chest and tries to swallow her heart. "He was nicer when Reignforest blew away his wife!"

"I'm sorry, Abby," he pulls up, trying to rein in his emotions, which have been riding high all day, "this has got me so aggravated–"

"I know, but you know what they say, 'a watched boil never gets lanced'."

If she is trying to lessen his aggravation, she is doing a lousy job. "Abby, I'm _trying_ to –."

"I know what you're trying to do." She points to the IAFIS machine where hundreds of prints per minute are being compared against the best ones she had isolated from the letters taken from O'Mallory. "As you can see, I'm running them even as we speak. The problem is, if Martine's team can bring in any usable prints, I'll have to stop and work through them -" his expression darkens, "- and you can help me by not being on my ass every ten minutes. At least Gibbs gives me fifteen."

He cuts off what he had been about to say. "I'm sorry, Abby, I'm … just going crazy."

"I know," she reaches out for him, putting her arms carefully about him, looking for someplace not burnt or bruised.

"What did I tell you about that?" Gibbs demands as he strides into the room, making them break apart.

Tim remembers he has nothing to feel guilty about. "I'm just checking up on the fingerprints."

"It's where you were _looking_ for them that bothers me."

"Boss, I'm trying to find out who's black–"

"_Hey_! We have three _dead agents_ if that's escaped your notice; not to mention that al-Qaeda is dancing a jig because Operation Gamma is pushed back who knows how long! Your _friend _is not your priority. I need everyone on deck on this case, and if you're healthy enough to be here instead of a hospital, you're healthy enough to work. Your Disability's over, get back to your desk."

"Boss, I–"

Gibbs comes nose-to-nose with him. "Do you work for her or do you work for NCIS?"

"She's NCIS too."

"The case we're _on_ is finding out who _killed_ Davis, Carver and Marcos! You're not up for that, get out and free up your computer for someone who's working!"

"Of course I'm on that."

"_Prove_ it. Get back to work! When and if Abby has anything, she'll let you know, you let me know and I'll see about a team to pick this guy up. Until then, I don't want to hear another word about it or you won't be on Disability, you'll be on Unemployment. _Get it_?"

"Got it."

"_Good_!"

x

When Tim is gone, Abby shakes her head. "You could have been a little understanding."

"I _was_ a little understanding. What about the C4?"

"God, are all the men around here on P-M-ale-S?" Catching the deadly look in his eyes, she gives up. "All right, C4 or '_Composition_-4' is 1.34 times as powerful as trinitrotoluene, your garden variety TNT, usually 91 percent cyclotrimethylene trinitramine, 5.3 percent dioctyl sebacate and a binder of 2.1 percent polyisobutylene and 1.6 percent SEA-10 motor oil. If it were commercially created, there might be marker or taggant chemicals like dimethyl dinitrobutane, but I'm betting this is going to wind up being home-grown so forget the markers. They haven't been used in years except for Switzerland which I find pretty ironic considering all those bank–"

"Abby."

"I'll look when the forensics team brings back anything larger than a muon or a lepton." She sees he either doesn't get the point or if there's anything he considers funny today.

"The RDX slurry is combined with a binder dissolved in a solvent, the solvent is evaporated off, the mixture dried and filtered. What's left is an off-white material with the consistency of clay that can be molded into an infinite number of shapes or pressed into cracks and crevasses. In this case it was pressed into hollow tubes. It will burn safely; it can only be detonated with a detonator or something like a blasting cap. Those, as you know, require a source of ignition, and the electric control to start the motors in that frame did the job just fine."

"Abby, let's pretend for one moment I don't have a PhD in physics. What does that mean in words of one syllable?"

"Play Dough that goes boom?"

xxx

It's three in the afternoon before Gibbs and his team can enter the Surgical Intensive Care Unit where Special Agent Janet White lies. SICU is a long ward with a Nurses' station immediately by the main door. The Nurses have an unobstructed view down the ten isolation rooms, five to a side off the corridor. There is an Emergency Supply case, a 'Crash Cart', at the far end, stocked with everything conceivably necessary for such a Unit.

Janet White's room is the third on the left. There's a large window in the metal isolation door affording a clear view of the entire room. Each of the agents, seeing their colleague through the door, must steel him and herself before entering.

White had been an attractive woman; tall with long jet black hair and a figure that left her prey to the occasional advances of Anthony DiNozzo, the self-styled Lothario of NCIS. She's now disturbingly changed. She had been standing with her right side exposed to the coffin, watching the main gate, and that side of her body and head had caught the force of the explosion and the rocketing shrapnel. The right side of her face is completely covered, but the agents had been shown a picture of what the bomb had done. Much of her face, from far behind her hairline and ear almost to her right eye, had been torn apart. She is fortunate not to have lost her eye but recovery will require a long series of reconstructive surgeries, and there's no definite prognosis yet of her chance for recovery.

Her black jacket had been no protection. From her position out of the line she hadn't even been protected by any of the standing mourners; she had received the full impact of the devastating explosion. By the time help had reached her, a burning fragment had set ablaze the right side of her clothing. Her burned flesh will require weeks of treatment and might never completely recover. Her left side, spared the devastating force, is less ravaged, her right so devastated her fellow agents must still their expressions against any reaction the woman might see.

"Five minutes," Donald Blake, her physician, declares over the quiet, steady beeping of the heart monitor. "Learn what you can in five minutes." Gibbs, looking at the wounded and heavily bandaged woman, does not argue.

DiNozzo, McGee, David and Lee hang back near the door of the small room, in sight and hoping they form a supporting presence, Gibbs the only one to approach her. White's eyes are open, tracking him, but her head does not move. "Janet, do you know me?"

"Giiibbssssss." The word is so slurred it is barely intelligible, and he wonders if it is from the wounds, medications, or both. She does know him, she is conscious, so he will take that as the only good sign.

"We have to know - what did you see?"

Between the damage to her face and the medications her words are forced, elongated and barely intelligible. Slowly and with great effort she tells them she had seen nothing out of the ordinary. While her attention had been on the perimeter, everything had gone as she had expected, following the form that so many such occasions she has seen have.

For all her attention outside the center of activity, she had not expected disaster to strike from within.

x

"Mmmmyyyy fffaaaaaa?" she finally asks, no longer focusing on a report. It takes much effort to force the words through lips that will not respond. "III caannnnn't fffeeelll mmmyyyyy faaassse."

"You'll be all right," DiNozzo cuts in, his tone heavy with sympathy where he wants it to be strong with reassurance. He knows Gibbs would never give her the lie.

"Myyyy teeeee," she asks apprehensively. She tries very hard to force her lips to move. "Aarrrrr thyyyy aliiiiii?" but she sees the answer in Gibbs' eyes before she can finish.

Gibbs shakes his head sadly. "All three are dead."

As much as she didn't believe her friends, much closer than she had been, had survived the horrific blast, she'd had hope. She'd had hope. "Billlll, Miiiik, Cathhhhhh ... deddddd?" Gibbs nods. "Thheeyy'rr ddeeddd?"

Gibbs knows she doesn't want to believe it, wants him to lie to her.

He can't.

She cannot hold back the tears, so consumed by grief she can answer no more questions.

xxx

Autopsy is a very busy place today, far too busy for Ducky and Palmer's tastes. With a disaster of such proportions as they must deal, there is no reasonable way to expect they can cope. The twenty one corpses have been scattered once they have been reasonably identified. The three deceased NCIS Agents had come to NCIS Headquarters. The various portions of General Harriman and his staff had been taken to the morgue at Bethesda. The late Lieutenant Delaney's family, the Honor Guard Bugler, the Minister and his assistants and so many others, overtaxing the abilities of any one Autopsy unit, have been taken to various places. As far as possible, the portions had been kept together.

There were some pieces that couldn't be identified yet.

The reports, in turn, have to be compiled and disseminated. Of the late Lieutenant Delaney himself, caught in the center of the vortex, there is nothing intact and little distinguishable. Forensics teams are still attempting to locate all of his remains - if they can be distinguished from those of others at the vortex.

When Gibbs enters the room, he doesn't know at first that the corpse upon the table between the two Medical Examiners is Michael Carver, with whom he had shared a lunch table in the cafeteria four days ago. His face is so torn that Gibbs doesn't recognize him. He does decide, however, that if he were to consider the question of identity of the unfortunate man, he would not want to know the answer.

He tries to put aside his feelings. He doesn't want to feel. If he allows himself to feel, he will not be able to stop.

x

Ducky glances back toward the closing door. "Good afternoon, Jethro. Or as good as may be." He is not surprised to see the man who often comes down unannounced, usually pressing for answers. At the moment Ducky has far too many.

"Speaking broadly, the Cause of Death for everyone on the scene is the same. Those closest to the explosion suffered burns as well as dismemberment, Janet White was furthest from the scene and I understand you have already seen her condition. Those closer suffered wounds varying mostly by distance; all fell victim to tiny slivers of metal traveling outward at nearly supersonic speed."

Gibbs steps up beside him. It had taken a few moments to steel himself before approaching the body. This time he recognizes it. Michael Carver's condition is far worse than White's; the front of his body is almost destroyed.

Ducky sees his friend's expression, knows he's trying hard to shield himself and knows it cannot be done. "If there is to be any good to come out of this, it all happened so quickly none of them even knew it. They did not have time to suffer."

"There's suffering, all right, Duck," he says, looking down at the still body on the table. "There's suffering."

xxx

Jennifer Shepherd puts down her telephone, truly wishing she could indulge in just one long, full bodied shriek, and might even do so if she were not afraid of frightening Cynthia Sumner into breaking in to save her. Fortunately for her Assistant's nerves, she does not have the opportunity as the door opens.

She bites back a sharp '_Get Out_!' knowing it will do no good at all and she does want to talk to the persistent intruder. "What is the chance that Abby can devise a biocode lock that will lock the door if you touch it?"

"I never give a computer enough time," Gibbs tells her.

"Sit down, Jethro."

In the time it takes him to do so, he has read her eyes. "You look like you need another debriefing in the ring." The last time he had goaded her into the boxing ring, it had been to work off extreme stress. It hadn't been as high then as what he reads in her eyes now.

"Won't help this time. I just got a call from the Commandant." Gibbs does not need any more detail. The Marine Commandant is on the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the highest ranking officer in the Corps. For him to call NCIS' Director personally is not good. "Operation Gamma is on hold pending our Investigation into the death of General Harriman. It's an International offensive, they want answers now."

"And 'now' means?"

Jennifer sighs, her thoughts in turmoil. "I have 96 hours to give them a conclusive report - or my resignation."


	5. Strange

Chapter Five  
Strange

Tim McGee, returning to the bullpen, tries to keep his attention on two disparate investigations when he's intercepted by Keith Golden, one of NCIS' best Profilers. "Hey Tim, I'm glad I caught you. You wanted the evaluation on the fake newsprint ay-sap."

"Great," Tim's surprised but gratified to get an answer so soon. "What have you got?"

"He looks like a real piece of work," the black man tells him, affronted at the offenses he had seen heaped upon Chaplain O'Mallory. He'd met her only a few times, and hadn't seen the pictures cut out of the copies he'd been asked to analyze and profile, but he has an imagination and aggravation at what is being done to the woman.

"You're looking for someone both manipulative and opportunistic. The words and phrases that come out most frequently are designed to humiliate and frighten. They point to someone who gets off on humiliating his victims and with a clear antipathy against women. The message is heavy on shame and a need to cover up, as well as to comply with the blackmailer.

"I don't get the sense that this guy is one who acts openly. That is, he might not be violent; statistically blackmailers are not unless they're threatened. Usually they like to keep their victims afraid and malleable for as long as possible, but I'm not telling you anything new."

"No."

"Of course I only had a few paragraphs to work with, so I cannot say he won't, just that the odds are against it if he thinks she'll comply. My sense is manipulation and opportunism. You said he didn't take the pictures he refers to, but he is taking advantage of them and I doubt O'Mallory is his only victim."

"I don't think so either."

"Your man is frequently a loner, very likely unable to form stable, long-term relationships. If the photographer is dead, you know what you're looking for."

"He's dead, natural causes. I'm trying to trace back known associates, particularly one who'd have access to his pictures. The ones he sent Sh– Reverend O'Mallory couldn't be published because she was 17."

"So your target got close enough to a private stash and decided there's more profit in blackmail than selling to a teen mag."

"Most of the big ones are too careful. The models they use look young but the famous 'age on file' goes in every issue. Thanks, Keith, that's a big help."

"Good luck tracking this bastard."

x

"Listen Up!" Gibbs' voice slices through the bullpen like a sword as he stops in the middle of the common area. "I want everything there is on those four who took McGee. DiNozzo, get with Joswig and get everything they have about the bombing. You're the liaison between us. Double shifts until further notice, so if you were watching the clock, forget it. Anyone has any plans for the evening, cancel them. Ziva, you and McGee get together and you break the Swiss - I don't care how you do it but you _break_ them!"

Their faces show what words will not. He's already given these assignments earlier with far less fire.

"Sir?"

He doesn't turn to the newest member of the team. "You'd _better_ not be about to tell me about International Law, Lee. You _will_ regret it!"

"No, sir, I was going to tell you I found the link between Klein, Whitney, Kimmel and Sullivan."

His anger cools. "What is it?"

"September 11, 2004, they all attended an Anniversary celebration in Palm Beach, Florida. It was billed as a corporate event, the 75th Anniversary of McGillicuddy, Crocetti and Morrison. It wasn't - it was the wrong date. Things would have gone fine if certain guests hadn't gotten out of hand. Some of the more flamboyant partiers started talking about the _real_ reason for the celebration, and the hotel staff called the police. The organizers might have bluffed it through; they had documentation about the company, but some of the guests didn't take kindly to Police intruding on their fun and things just collapsed from there.

"The organizers hadn't committed any crime and it was their word - and documentation - against the hotel staff's as to _what _they were celebrating. Fifteen guests were taken in for drunk and disorderly, held until they sobered up and then were released with bench tickets. None of them bothered to honor them and the Palm Beach Courts had more to do than to worry about extraditing some out-of-state D&D cases. But that was the first confirmed link to the four of them."

"Good work. Take that company apart. If you find something that even _smells_ like al Qaeda, flag it to every SSA."

He looks among his people. They have a right to know why they're working double shifts and taking more than the usual extra heat. His voice carries throughout the huge room, taking in everyone in all sections. "People, we have 95-plus hours to solve the murder of General Harriman and his staff and find out who killed our people and who is behind this plot - or the axe falls on Director Shepherd's neck.

"That is _not_ going to happen!"

Throughout the room, attention is turned doubly to duty.

xxx

Two hours later Washington, outside the huge window, is dark and stars shine through the skylight. Beta Shift, one story above them, had started early and Gamma Shift is starting to arrive in advance of their Zero to Eight shift when Michelle Lee calls across the dimly lit bullpen. "Sir, I have it."

Gibbs is at her desk in three strides. "What?"

"McGillicuddy, Crocetti and Morrison, the company who was having the 75th Anniversary - by the way, they're nowhere near that old - has offices in quite a number of cities, but the addresses…. Well, the New York branch is roughly between Liberty and Ellis Islands, the Seattle office's address is so ridiculously high it's in the Rockies - _inside_ the Rockies, actually. There are seven other offices, but you get the picture. My personal favorite is right here in Washington, 1612 Pennsylvania Avenue. That'd put it right on the White House lawn."

"Why does that company sound familiar?" DiNozzo wonders aloud.

"McGillicuddy is reputedly the maiden name of Lucy Ricardo, played by Lucille Ball on 'I Love Lucy'; or it could be the real name of Connie Mack, who owned the Philadelphia Athletics. Crocetti, among other things, is the real last name of entertainer Dean Martin–"

"And Morrison is the real name of John Wayne."

"Would you like to know where the Corporate Headquarters is?"

For Gibbs it is not much of a guess. "Switzerland?"

"Zűrich."

"Well done." He turns, about to issue orders, but finds only tired faces. It's 2307, they've been at this all day and energy is flagging. "Go home, everyone. Be back here 0800, ready to tear McGillicuddy, Crocetti and Morrison apart."

xxx

Jimmy Palmer lies in Michelle's Lee's bed, the young woman resting on him under the light cover. Her hand and cheek are upon his bare chest, her breath tickling his flesh and her left leg is draped across his hips. He'd picked her up from Headquarters; she'd called him claiming to be too exhausted to drive but she hadn't been too exhausted to come with him to his apartment. Now they lie quietly together, doing no more than cuddling close, his arm upon her back to support and hold her close.

He knows too well that she hasn't recovered from what those men and that sadistic woman did to her – and it's not helping that she won't talk about it. Neither is she comfortable even with him, but he can do no more than follow Dr. Mallard's advice. He must be a source of strength and comfort to her even as she was to him during his crisis. He knows, or thinks he knows, what she needs. She'd nursed him through his own anxieties and nightmares. They have, in fact, begun to ease since she has come to need him to be a strong shield for her. He wishes she'd let him be that shield.

She lied. He's sure of it. Found naked and tied with her legs spread and not raped by those three men? She said she wasn't, and gets madder every time he begins to mention it.

'Don't question her,' Dr. Mallard had advised. 'Be there as her comfort and security. When she is ready, _she'll _mention it to you.'

x

Michelle moves closer, her arm and bare leg draping further over his body, their bodies close as she rests her head higher upon his chest. Her eyes are open now, she's looking at and absently fingering the jeweled silver band upon her left hand. "Honey," she asks softly, "have you given any thought to setting a date?"

"Date for what?" he asks, restraining a smile. Best to bury his worries in lightness lest she sense the weight upon his heart.

She looks up at him, surprised. "Our _wedding_."

"Oh ... That."

She slaps his chest with her fingertips, "You _did_ ask me to marry you; I have a whole restaurant full of witnesses. And it wasn't just to get me into bed with you, or to make the sex better."

"It did."

"Did what?"

"Make the sex better."

She slaps her bare chest again. "Will you be _serious_?"

"I thought I was." She sighs, starts to get off, but he hugs her, holding her in place. "Name it."

"Name the date?" She is surprised, she had expected him to.

"Uh huh."

"May the first," she tells him instantly, "I want to get married on May Day."

"You're pretty sure." She nods. "Why?"

"Biggest Wiccan Feast of all - at least for me. The celebration of New Life, height of spring, feast of fertility. That night I'm throwing away the IUD and I'm going to conceive your child."

x

Jimmy is sure his face, all too expressive at the best of times, telegraphs his thoughts, which most closely resemble a loud skidding followed by a resounding crash. "Er - ab - er - cin - can we - _talk_ about that? I - I mean - family - that's a - _fast_ step!"

She makes a show of giving it some thought. "I suppose I could wait a week, still close enough to the Equinox."

"Are you _kidding_ me?"

"Yup."

He realizes even before she grins at him that he has been had – again. She does it so well. His head falls back upon the pillow. "Thank _God_!"

"And Goddess."

x

She's 'corrected' him in the past as well. "I think there's something even more important to talk about."

She rises up in faux astonishment, "More important than our _baby_?"

"Well, _yeah_! Like the wedding. How are we going to handle that, let alone raise a child? Like where can we get it done? I'm Roman Catholic, you're Episcopalian slash Wiccan. You said when you try to balance them your two religions give you a headache. What about three?"

She gets off him, pulling the blanket after her, sits up and turns away, her happy mood destroyed. "You _would_ bring that up."

"Honey, I mean it. Am I going to get married in a meadow with your High Priestess and Coven?"

She looks back over her shoulder, hugging the blanket about her, "Am _I_ going to get married in a Church in virgin white before some Roman Priest?"

"What are people going to think of us in a field with garland flowers and a Maypole?" He tries to make her see reason, realizing a moment later that he's trying to make her see _his_ reason.

"You think I'm going to turn my back on my Faith and pledge some better or worse, sickness and health, richer or poorer junk, most of which never _lasts_?"

"'Chelle–"

"Just - forget it." She flings the covers off, gets out of the bed and steps away, comes to a stop across the room. She doesn't want to fight, not about this and particularly not now, but she wishes he could be a little understanding.

He looks at her bare body in the soft light. "Skyclad?"

"Don't make jokes," she demands tightly, "and not about things you don't understand!"

He leaves the bed, stepping behind her. "No jokes. Compromise?"

"What compromise?" She won't turn around.

He puts his hands on her upper arms, they're hard as stone. "May Day, next year, we get married on 'neutral' ground. Mother O'Mallory, since she's NCIS Chaplain, does the ceremony. You wear garlands and we write our own vows that'll be most meaningful to us."

She turns back to him, no longer hard. It's more than she'd hoped for. "Okay." She steps into his embrace, resting her head on his chest. After a few moments, she whispers:"Our first fight."

If this was a fight, he hopes all of them will be this easy. "You know what they say about love fights."

"No, what do they say?"

His touch on her chin makes her look up, he bends so his lips are close to hers. "It makes the making up that much better."

It's quite some time before they make it back to the bed.

xxx

Night had descended as a shroud over the entire nation; now after 1:00 it seems to smother everything. In Virginia Hospital Center, however, the air is heavy with tension. Three 'Code-Blue's, the highest level of alert, have sounded in the space of twenty five minutes; one in the ER, one in Pediatrics and one in Medical Intensive Care Unit. Resources are strained as Doctors and Nurses struggle to keep up with the flurry of emergencies.

In SICU, isolated by soundproof doors, all the patients are asleep with the aid of various sedatives, but only Nurse Judy Tremont remains in the ward. Her partner has been pulled to MICU to deal with a sudden heart attack of one patient, while in another bed a patient, witnessing the drama, began suffering convulsions. The staff that would have responded to that distress was tied up with the first Code, and for the moment Tremont is alone.

From the Nursing station at the end of the room she can see all of the small isolation rooms that line the central corridor and the unlit emergency lights above each door. It is time to make the hourly rounds of the eight patients. A call has gone out for backup but, overtaxed as the staff is with three almost simultaneous emergencies, there's no backup to be had. Tremont prays she can get through the next half hour without any further emergencies, all the while knowing the uselessness of hoping. She had been about to take a long anticipated break before the chaos had begun, now she's stranded.

Completing the examination of one of the patients, she steps out through the isolation door in time to see the door beside the Station to her left open and a white coated doctor enter. His eyes skim over the two rows of isolation rooms, then over the set of tagged charts at the desk.

"May I help you?" Tremont inquires, surprised to receive a visitor at this late hour, not at all happy not to recognize him. Admittance to the IC Units is strictly controlled, and she's not anxious for any more complications. Still, she reminds herself, she can be cordial.

"Doctor Stephen Strange," he introduces himself, "I'm Bill Maxwell's Physician - I was just checking on him."

"He's fine - as fine as someone in here can be, Doctor ... Strange?" She does not want to seem forward, but he smiles thinly.

"Don't worry, I get that all the time." His manner is the casual one of someone who has accepted his lot in life. "However, I assure you I don't know a single magic trick."

"Of course not, doctor." She tries to give the impression that the thought had never crossed her mind. Actually, the man resembles his fictional namesake so well he could have modeled for the comic book artists.

"How have you been?"

"Just fine, doctor."

"Lots of activity tonight."

"I could use less." She looks at the clock on the wall, "Nurse Vega got pulled into MICU to help with their Code – I'm just praying nothing else happens. Donnelly was on her way to relieve me until the Code in Pediatrics."

"So you're alone?"

"I'm counting the minutes."

"I imagine she'll be here soon. Things look pretty hectic outside."

"Actually," she hesitates, uncertain if she should say it. "I'm dying to get down the hall for a minute." She manages to convey her need without having to actually say it.

"Well, why don't you?"

She stares at him, aghast. "I can't leave the –!"

"Come now, nurse, I'm quite capable of watching a ward for two minutes, I assure you. It'll be our secret."

"Okay," she heads quickly for the door, grateful for the opportunity. "Thank you, I won't be a minute"

"Don't even mention it."

x

As soon as the door closes behind her, Strange walks quickly down the central corridor. Finding Janet White's room as the third on the left, he opens the door and steps in. She is asleep, the soft beeps of the heart monitor are the only sound. Stepping up to the clear intravenous bag dripping a colorless solution into her left arm, he draws from his pocket a small black case. He opens it and takes out a hypodermic syringe.

Inserting the needle into the auxiliary shunt designed for the addition of medications into the IV tube, he presses the plunger. A steady stream of colorless liquid leaps into the flow. Putting the syringe back into the case, he leaves the room and is back at the desk before the ICU door flies open.

"Thank you."

"Think nothing of it," he says, his hand on the doorknob.

"How's Mr. Maxwell?"

"Hmmm? Oh, he's fine. I'll drop by again in the morning. Goodnight."

"Good night, Doctor."

x

Judy Tremont opens the door to Maxwell's room to check his vitals when a sharp buzz slices the air. She turns, sees the Emergency light over the third left door blinking red and hurries to the window. The woman thrashes about wildly. Her heart monitor beeps rapidly and the screen displays extremely erratic readings. She slaps the button beside the door and hurries in as alarms blare through the outer hall. Loudspeakers outside the Unit call 'Code Blue - SICU, Code Blue - SICU'...

But by the time Judy reaches the woman, she's still. The heart monitor changes from a wildly erratic display and staccato beeping to three yellow lights that track across the middle of the screen, punctuated by a steady whistle.

Despite the urgent, coordinated efforts of the men and women who respond to the continuing alert, those lines and the toneless whistle remain.

xx

Director Jennifer Shepherd, with barely an hour's sleep before her phone rang, stalks into the Surgical Intensive Care Unit to find the too-limited space tightly packed with Medical white and NCIS black. "All right, everybody but Ducky, Palmer and _one_ team, out!" The men and women in black obey. Those in white quite properly protest until one of their own, with authority to do so, sends the extra staff back to their normal duties. Fred Higgins, Max Crawford, Sol Mitchner and Carol Senise remain.

"Who was the Duty Nurse?"

"I was," Judy Tremont admits, "I'm on from eight in the evening until four."

x

Jennifer takes a moment to size the woman up: mid to late twenties, black hair, green eyes, married, 'MedicAlert' bracelet on left wrist, small leather strapped sweep second hand watch on the right; possibly left handed. Her accent is Southern Midwest, she's scared and not hiding it well. Shepherd wonders what she has to be frightened about.

"What happened?"

"I was making my rounds and had just come out of Maxwell's room," she nods to the second door on her right, "when the Emergency Alert sounded at 1:13. She was having convulsions. I signaled a Code Blue. By the time I got into the room and to her, her heart had stopped and I commenced CPR. Doctors Peterson and Blake, Nurses Vega, Donnelly and Johnson arrived. Vega and Donnelly pulled supplies from the crash case, Peterson took over the CPR, I administered epinephrine. We tried to resuscitate, Johnson applied the defibrillator. She was declared dead at 1:37 a.m. We did all we could. I'm sorry."

"Which one is in there with Special Agent White now?"

"Doctor Blake."

"He made the Call?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Nurse," Fred Higgins says from behind her, "you have a view of all the units from your station."

"Yes, sir," she answers nervously, not liking the feeling of being surrounded by the investigators.

"Why were you alone? Aren't there usually more nurses?"

Tremont doesn't want to answer. Hospital regulations require two nurses at night, but her partner had been pulled to MICU to assist in an emergency and her relief was late. This is a serious failure, but if she tells them this, someone's head is going to roll and she had the dreadful feeling it'll be hers. "We had a lot of emergencies, three other Codes, everyone was moved around to help."

"When was the last time you checked on Special Agent White?"

"1:00."

"What was her condition?" he asks as he writes in a small notebook.

Tremont shrugs, "She was normal," her eyes dart between them, "there was no sign of any problem. She was asleep."

"And yet thirteen minutes later the emergency alarm goes off and she's having convulsions. What were her vital signs?"

She's caught. "I..."

"Yes?"

"I - I don't know."

He looks up from the notebook. "You just said you checked her."

"Yes, sir," she feels the noose tighten. This is all going like she'd expected, and she can't think of a way to escape from it.

"And you can't tell me her blood pressure, respiration, heart rate?"

"Well, her heart rate was recorded, the other tests are done regularly but I was alone and..."

"Nurse, how long does it take to check each patient?"

"Three or four minutes."

"And you do it on the hour?"

"Yes, why?"

"Oh, I just find it curious." He looks up from his pad. He had been watching her face with upraised eyes while he wrote and now he gives her his full attention. "You see, White's room is third in on the left, you did your check on the hour but you said you looked in on her at 1:00. There are eight patients in the ward of ten rooms. Three minutes per patient would take you no less than twenty-four minutes to make your rounds, twenty-six more likely but we'll give the benefit and say twenty-four. Yet you say you were making your rounds and you were on the right side already when the alarm went off at 1:13. I think you can see where I would have a problem with that."

"Well, er, I didn't start _exactly _on the hour."

"All right, that clears that up." His smile doesn't reach his eyes as he adds that note without looking at the pad. "Did you start with the left side first or the right?"

"The left - no, I mean the right, I–"

"Come now, nurse, it's a very simple question."

"I started with the left."

"Is there a problem here?" Donald Blake inquires, coming out of White's room. He's a tall, blond man with brown glasses and a darker mood. He doesn't like losing patients, especially when it prompts this much attention in his ward.

"Merely a curiosity. I was going to ask how long it would take to check an SICU patient." He doesn't need to see the color drain from Tremont's face.

"Routinely about four minutes. There are two nurses on duty at night. They check pulse, respiration, blood pressure, temperature, review the paper tape of the monitor and make entries in the journal, four to five minutes apiece."

"Since Nurse Tremont was alone during the emergency, it would take about thirty five to forty minutes to check eight patients?"

Blake nods. "That's right."

x

Higgins turns back to Tremont. "Would you mind showing me your log?"

"I - I -,"

"Yes?"

"I was in the bathroom."

"You were in the–"

"We had three Codes in twenty five minutes, and I had been on duty without a break for three hours before all that started! I was overdue for relief, but she had been diverted to Pediatrics. I had to _Go_!"

"So the relief nurse made the rounds?"

"No - that is, she never made it. Dr. Strange covered for me while I ran down the hall."

"Who?" Blake asks.

"Steven Strange, Mr. Maxwell's GP. He was in to see him. He covered for me while I ran to the bathroom. I was only gone two minutes – I _swear_!"

"William Maxwell's physician is Harry Grant, and how does a doctor you do not know get into SICU and you do not verify his authorization?"

"I, er, I realize I should have, but he was only going to be here for a minute – and he said he would cover for me while I – that is…." Seeing the look in her superior's eyes, she knows she's doomed.

Higgins breaks in, mostly to head off an internal regulation issue that will take them away from a dead agent. "Then who is Dr. Steven Strange?"

"He's the Sorcerer Supreme," Jimmy Palmer, coming out of the isolation room with Ducky, supplies helpfully. Every eye turns to him and he instantly regrets his input. "That is, he's a Marvel Comics character."

"He said he gets that all the time," Tremont says.

"Gets what?" Higgins asks.

"People reacting to his name like that."

"Well, who _is_ he?" Jennifer breaks in, her patience running out. "Is he on the staff?"

"We certainly don't have a Steven Strange," Donald Blake answers sharply. "I've never heard of a Doctor Strange - at least not in real life."

"What did he look like?" Higgins asks, pen again at his pad.

"He was about six feet tall, thin, black hair, a bit grey at the temples, a thin moustache –"

"He _looked_ like Doctor Strange?" Jimmy asks incredulously. Even he has heard better alibis.

"He was _here_!" Tremont insists. "He had a white coat, stethoscope, latex gloves –"

"An outside doctor checks on a patient at 1:00 in the morning wearing latex gloves?" Jenny demands. "I've had enough. Nurse Tremont, you are coming with us. Doctor, you will want to see about relief for the nurse. Ducky, I want that autopsy as soon as you can. Special Agent Higgins, you will take Nurse Tremont into custody."

xxx

Karen Banks parks her car on the side of the rural road, and when she turns off her headlights the road is utterly black. There's no moon tonight – in five months there has never been a moon. The stars provide no light, there's nothing to see by and the surrounding crickets and katydids echo the rhythm of her pounding heart. She gets out of her car into the blackness. She can't even see herself.

Five times she has been here. Five times she's left an envelope containing twenty one hundred dollar bills behind a specific tree. Five times she's worked up the nerve to come back the following morning to find nothing left.

She doesn't know who's doing this to her. He's only a voice on her phone, notes on her desk after lunch, and of course no one ever sees anything! It could be anyone, the man in the next cubicle, the one down the hall, the –.

Karen is about to turn on her flashlight when she turns at the sound of a foot scuff behind her. She screams as a blinding light sears her eyes and the envelope is yanked from her hand! She twists away, covering her eyes, cowering in pain.

"I came to tell you your contribution is going up." The guttural whisper is nothing like the hissing sibilants over her phone, but she's sure it is the same man. "Next month is $3,000."

"Please! I can't!" She tries to look, tries to see the man but his light blinds her. Every time she tries to look, all she can see is the blazing light.

"You're the Treasurer of the Foundation. You'll find a way."

"I _can't_! I can barely get what I–"

"If you don't, all those underprivileged kids you help are going to get something special in their lunchboxes." His voice is so assured, so certain he has her in his control. He does. "I wonder how their mommies and daddies will react. And all those wealthy donors who support you, what will they think when they know what an upstanding example of morality you've been?"

"Please!"

"Three thousand dollars next month." A car door slams shut, the engine roars like an angry lion and in a scream of tires he's gone. No headlights, no light at all. By the time Karen's tearing eyes adjust to the blackness she's alone.

xxx

In the Rectory of St. Mary the Virgin Church, Father George Donaldson comes instantly awake when the shrill shriek penetrates the wall behind his head. He's on his feet and yanks open the door before the sound dies. He hurries to the door next to his, throws it open, slaps the light switch on the wall. The overhead bulb bathes the room in light.

By the time he slows down, he sees Siobhan O'Mallory seated on her bed, her bed faces off the corridor wall so he's behind her. She's gasping frantically, her blanket clutched to her chest, her blue pajamas twisted tight about her and her red hair a disheveled riot. She turns, her terror magnifying.

"It's me," he tells the panting woman, speaking distinctly to break through her terror. Her glasses are on the night table on the other side of the bed so he knows she can see only a lit fog.

"George?" Her best voice is a fear-hushed whisper. She keeps the blanket pressed to her heaving chest, gasping for air and reaches out with her right hand, groping blindly for her glasses. She only succeeds in knocking them off the night table onto the carpet. "_Damn_!"

Crossing the room and coming around the bed as she turns over, searching for the lost aids and coming nowhere near them, he picks them up. Making sure his black pajamas are presentable before using one hand to assist her back to sitting on the bed, he puts the glasses into her questing hand. He waits until she can put them on, her hands trembling.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm sorry," she gasps, "I had a nightmare."

"I could tell." She winces at the wry humor in his tone. He turns to a chair pushed under her desk across the room, draws it to the bed and sits down. When he speaks again there is no humor. "What was it?"

x

She doesn't want to tell him, but has little choice. "Dennis Whitney had me trapped in that elevator again, attacking me," she admits, unable to meet his eyes. She can use the word 'attack' only as an empty euphemism. The man had tried to rape her.

Despite her efforts to look at George, her eyes always miss his. "But this time it wasn't Whitney - it really _was_ Timmy."

"Agent McGee is your friend and would never hurt you," Donaldson tells her, feeling it important to reinforce that knowledge. "He's doing what he can to help you."

"I know. But in the dream … in the …" Siobhan doesn't want to say it. But if the way her scream had followed her out of the dream is any indication, she'd probably thrown Donaldson out of his bed. He had rushed in to rescue her from some horrible fate and he deserves the truth. "He got my - he got me down - but I got his gun away from him and I–"

She turns from him, wraps her arms about her chest, her heart pounding. She can't look at him, can't stop trembling. "I killed Timmy! I took his gun and I _killed_ –."

"You did not," he reminds her firmly. "Tim McGee is alive and well. He was here yesterday evening and is working to find this person who's blackmailing you." She nods, admitting the truth. "Get some rest," he advises, wishing there were something he could do for her fears. He puts the chair back and goes around the bed to the door. Not wanting to linger to the point where she'll be embarrassed, he starts to close the door behind himself.

"George?" He pauses. She's not looking at him but staring straight ahead across the room, no more seeing him than if her glasses were off. "I think I should call Dr. McFadden in the morning, ask if she'll see me during the day tomorrow. The nightmares are just getting worse, and the panic attacks…."

"Do you want me to drive you?" He can just see her behind a wheel in her condition, but she shakes her head.

"I'll be all right." She only turns again when she hears the door close. For a few moments she sits trying to calm herself, to get over the lingering fright, to regain her control. She realizes she'd rolled over off her pillow, now cool to her touch, during the night and had begun dreaming.

Getting off the bed, she switches the light off and returns to the safety of her bed. When she lies down again upon her pillow, she listens carefully to the soft, relaxing music coming from the CD player McFadden had given her. It's on continuously, barely audible through the pillow. She hopes it will be enough to relax her so she can eventually get back to sleep without the nightmares. Dreams are fine; it was the nightmares that this device was supposed to prevent.

She's asleep in less than two minutes, no longer consciously hearing the music nor anything else.


	6. Searching for Answers

Chapter Six  
Searching for Answers

The death of an agent under even easily explainable circumstances is enough to mobilize a large force of NCIS Investigators; a death shrouded in mystery even more so. Abby Sciuto, called to her lab late in the night by the Director, isn't surprised to turn from her microscope several hours later, on the cusp of morning shift change, to see Gibbs and his team enter. They're accompanied by Fred Higgins, Max Crawford, Sol Mitchner and Carol Senise, all of them looking grim.

"I've been expecting you - though maybe not so many of you," Abby admits, utterly serious. "I just finished my tests on Janet's samples. I found _huge_ levels of diamorphine ... heroin," she clarifies. "Normally it metabolizes quickly, breaking down within minutes into monoacetylmorphine and then into morphine. That's why in a drug screen you don't test for heroin, you test for its residue - morphine. But I found, as I said, levels of diamorphine that would kill everyone in this room. She died of a heroin overdose."

"Janet does not _use_ –" Carol starts to retort, but Abby holds her hand up to cut off the angry woman.

"No, she doesn't. _No one_ uses this much heroin. I found nothing that is commonly used to cut the strength for street use. This was pure diamorphine, as if she had received a _gallon's_ worth of street-strength stuff. If an addict's intent is to fly, she was strapped to a warp-driven starship.

"It was inserted into the IV tube's medication shunt. I found traces in the remainder of the tube. I'm running prints through AIFIS, but from the report I got there might not be any prints from our killer. You said he was wearing gloves throughout his visit. If they were thin, we will. If not – I can't guarantee."

"How quickly did she die?

"This much in her system, barely more than a minute. Ducky can check me on this, but she didn't have a prayer."

xxx

Nurse Judy Tremont sits in Interrogation Two, knowing she's being watched through the mirror in front of her and galled that she can't do a thing about it. She's been taken out of her Holding Cell by two tall, silent agents, not knowing what's going to happen to her and deposited back in this room without explanation. She waits nervously, not knowing what these people intend to do to her.

Last night, due to her own carelessness, she'd allowed someone who had claimed to be a Doctor checking on his patient into SICU. She'd taken his assurance that he could watch the ward as an opportunity to use the bathroom down the hall. While she'd been gone, trusting in the Doctor's assistance, he'd slipped into the room where Janet White had been sleeping and killed her. He'd poisoned her with something that took effect after he was gone. White had thrashed about wildly for less than a minute, she was dead before help could reach them.

Now she's been arrested and has been here ever since, not even knowing if she's still employed.

She knows she faces a Review if she ever gets out of here. Right now she has her dou–.

The door at her left flies open and she jumps in her skin, a bleat of fear breaks through her. The man who had interrogated her the previous night and concluded her guilt comes in with another, older man. Judy leaps to her feet.

"Please! I've told you everything I know yesterday! Please let me go!

"It's not that simple, Nurse Tremont. Your inattentiveness cost the life of one of our agents."

"I'm _sorry_!"

"That might've gone over better before but it's a really bad idea to lie to Federal Investigators, especially when it involves a death - and most especially when that death is of one of our agents."

SA Janet White had survived an explosive assassination at Arlington and been taken to the hospital to save her. She shouldn't have been murdered there.

"So you want revenge. You want to beat it out of me."

Higgins is astonished at her fire. "No, Nurse Tremont, it's not about revenge, it's about justice. It's about finding out what happened to Special Agent Janet White and catching the one who did it."

"I want a lawyer. I said that before, the other agents ignored me."

"No, Nurse Tremont, we did not ignore you. Since you didn't specify who, we've contacted a Public Defender; he's on his way. But you are not under arrest - you're here as a material witness in a homicide. Were you under arrest you would need a lawyer and one would be provided for you before we asked you any questions, but we are not charging you with anything."

"For leaving my–"

He waves this off. "If the Hospital wishes to discipline you for having left your post in the care of an unknown person, resulting in the death of a patient, that is their concern. I want to know what happened in SICU when Special Agent Janet White was murdered."

"I'll tell you anything I can, I swear I will!"

"This is Michael Stoltz," he indicates the grey haired man with him. "He's an artist. I'd like you to work with him. Try to remember everything you can about the man you met last night."

"Then I can go home?"

"We'll see."

Defeated, doubting she will ever see her home again, she sits down.

xxx

Ten minutes later Jennifer Shepherd summons to her office the four Supervisory Special Agents she had assigned to take the forefront in this case, Gibbs and Robert DiMarco of Alpha Shift, Martine Joswig of Beta and Fred Higgins of Gamma, who's been summoned from Interrogation. They stand before the aggravated Director, who works hard to contain her emotions.

Jennifer looks over her Lieutenants, and for an instant the irrelevant thought that she has not yet chosen her Deputy slips in. She had been too busy to devote the necessary thought to it, now is not the time. But whichever breaks this case, be it DiMarco or Joswig, he or she will quickly advance to the front of the list.

Now there are more urgent concerns.

"How sure are you that this McGillicuddy, Crocetti and Morrison are the prime movers?"

Gibbs gives the others the summary of what they had learned the previous evening.

x

"This morning I've ordered NCIS worldwide to go to Alert Level Red," she tells them. "While our position in Switzerland is not the best, we have to get that Account information. While we get cooperation, it's spotty and grudging; we need a concentrated effort. If it were any other country I would take the information we have to the State Department while our people bust down doors. But Swiss neutrality is a valuable commodity to many countries, most of whom hold it in higher regard than they do America. I'm taking what we know, including this McGillicuddy group, to a meeting with the SecNav and the Commandant in less than an hour, but frankly I'm less than optimistic.

"It's now all too obvious that our effort to stop the cell that targeted our agents has failed. Whether or not Dennis Whitney succeeded or failed, _someone_ is targeting us. The deaths of William Davis, Michael Carver and Catherine Marcos appeared to be collateral to that of General Harriman. With the murder of Janet White, it's obvious to me that it's the other way around.

"Lady and Gentlemen, the enemy will be identified, but as of this moment NCIS is at War."

xxx

"What did you get?" Fred Higgins asks Stoltz as he meets the man coming out of the Interrogation room. He takes the pad, flips up the cardboard cover and looks at the result of Judy Tremont's interview.

When he sees the picture, Higgins feels his blood pressure peak. "What the hell is this? You looking for a job with Stan Lee?" The picture is so close to a living image of the Marvel Comics character it could have come out of any book. It's as if the suspect were an actor playing the part.

"That's who came to see her last night. It's so obviously a disguise I'm amazed she didn't see it."

Higgins lowers the pad, gives it back. "Why is it never easy?"

xxx

It is not often, excluding the time she had been under the influence of Samuel Richards' mind control experiments, that Abby Sciuto feels the urge to slap McGee. This time she finds the desire to come from within and it is very powerful indeed.

"I thought you said," he demands in exasperated challenge, "that you could tell me whose printer made those papers and envelopes." He'd come once again into her lab to find the results of the fingerprint test. She still hasn't regained her equilibrium lost when an hour ago she'd told two teams of agents that the only surviving member of another ill-fated team had O.D.'d on a gallon's worth of smack.

"I _said_ I could trace the printer and I did," she tells him tersely. "Microcoding in the print shows the printer ID; I traced it to HP, it's a Laserjet 1100A. That particular printer went to an Electronics and Computer show at the Chevy Chase Pavilion two years ago. Whoever bought it paid cash so there is no credit card or bank trail," she sees the fiery frustration in his eyes, "and if you slap me I'm going to slap you back a lot harder!"

His anger is washed away by astonishment. "I would never hit you, Abby!"

He is so appalled she doesn't have the heart to continue. "Turn it over to the police," she says instead. "They're equipped to hunt for and deal with blackmailers."

"Gibbs says to turn everything over to him. He'll have a team assigned to pick the bastard up."

"Well then, that's the way you go." She can read the frustration and anger in his face all too well, she feels the same things. "You knew you weren't going to be in on the kill." She is surprised she has to remind him. He is on the D.L. It's only through extraordinary circumstances that he's even in the building.

"I have to be," he grouses.

"McGee, _listen_ to yourself," she tries to forcibly awaken him. She's no longer angry, just concerned. "You're too involved in this - it's become personal. God, one would think you're in _love_ with her!"

McGee stops dead, fixing her with a glare. "I am _not _in love with Siobhan!"

"Well, you sure _act_ like it sometimes." There is no recrimination in her tone. Her friend is going off the deep end, and she's certain she knows why - even if he doesn't. It's what she'd tried to tell him the night before last when he'd dropped her off after they'd left the Church.

"She doesn't deserve this," he continues." She's been through enough already!"

"Such fire, McGee," she almost teases, trying to get him to see what's too obvious to her.

"It is _not_–!" He bites off the angry retort, tries for a calmer tone, "I would do exactly the same for you or Ziva."

Abby smiles, "I thereby rest my case."

Tim stands staring at her for five seconds, then turns and stalks out, trailing a wake of fury.

"You loved me," Abby says to the empty air, "then you loved Ziva - or think you do. Now..."

She returns to her work, feeling she has finally won her war with Ziva - though far differently than she'd ever anticipated.

xx

Tim continues in the elevator to the top floor, gets off and turns left to storm down the long corridor, frustration and anger warring with even darker emotions. He hits the defective Emergency door, throws it open - and hesitates, looking at the spot to the right, by the fire hose, that had become his and Ziva's personal retreat. Not that it's a secret; the spot had been used by others before he'd ever been told about it. But for Tim and Ziva it had become a truly special place, a place wherein to explore more about their relationship than they did anywhere else. She had told him that, after the incident with Dennis Whitney, she never wants to see it again; its joy for her has been spoiled. Now, looking at it, he feels like an alien.

Continuing up the stairs, he tries to outpace the anger, the chaotic emotions that threaten to undo him. He shoves the roof door open, sticking a crumpled paper from his notebook into the latch hole. Thus secure, he walks out onto the roof that overlooks the expanse of the Naval Base, the Anacostia river spread out behind him. Finding no answers there, he looks up into the cloudy sky. "God - how did I come to this?"

No matter how many of his inner, burning questions he puts into words, the answer is still only silence.

But then he hears Siobhan's voice in his memory instead. 'When you're calm, when you're still, that's when you can hear the voice of God.'

He cannot bring himself to be calm _or_ still.

xxx

Siobhan O'Mallory, unaware of her old friend's turmoil and despite her best efforts, cannot remain calm or still either, not while seated opposite Dr. Elizabeth McFadden. She's been seeing this woman in this quite, wood paneled office for several weeks, ever since the panic attacks had begun after the explosion that had destroyed her apartment. She feels slightly better able to cope with the attacks; it's the rest of her life that she's having trouble with.

Prayer is a source of strength, comfort and support, but this time she also has to rely upon the personal aid of a professional. But though she'd managed to squeeze in without an appointment by relaying to the receptionist outside the urgent need that had prompted her call, she cannot get comfortable enough to open herself. It's now halfway through her session, and she's only feeling more frustrated at her own inability.

"What are you holding back, Reverend?" the blonde woman asks.

Siobhan tries not to clutch the blue skirt that crosses her lap. Rather than wearing her usual attire, she's clad in a deeper blue blouse and skirt combination, wanting to get away from her traditional image. The problem is that it is not her image that's bothering her.

She pulls off her gold framed glasses and the room vanishes into a murky fog. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"How's your love life?"

x

Astounded, Siobhan shoves the glasses back on, trying not the gawk at the woman across the table from her. "That is awfully _blunt_!"

"I find sometimes that bluntness can be very effective in treatment, especially when I notice that you're so reluctant to discuss that aspect of your life. We discuss your sleep habits, your relationship with your partner, your issues with the Church and your parishioners, your work with this NCIS. But other than anxiety, nightmares and panic attacks, we never really get beyond business. How's your sex life?"

If Siobhan had been astonished earlier at the audacious question, this time she feels her mouth drop open and closes it with an audible clap of her lips. "That is –!" She's too outraged to find the word. It has nothing to do with the recent attempt of that man to rape her on an elevator – she had been quite vocal about that. This is much more personal. "That is not the sort of question you ask a priest!" Even to her, it sounds like a hollow, and not even a convenient, evasion.

"Come now, Reverend, I know enough about the differences in our respective religions to know what your laws allow. You are not required to be celibate. You can marry, have children, do –"

"All _right_!" She tries to fight her anger down, knowing what the woman is trying to do. "The truth is," she admits reluctantly, "I don't have one. A sex life, that is."

"You _are_ celibate?"

"It's hardly an unusual choice. I'm allowed to be celibate. And I could ... Do it ... if I wanted to. I just don't … indulge."

"Do you want to?"

"Y–" She manages to cut off the admission in time.

x

But after a long moment of consideration, she changes her mind, though the words still come out more as a reluctant admission than a statement. "If I were to want to, the person I would choose … is not available."

"Why not?"

"I've already _told_ you why not!"

"Ah, then we're talking about–"

"We're _talking_," she answers with tightly controlled emotion, "about the only person who has ever _meant _anything like that to me, who is ultimately going to marry someone _else_."

It takes a moment to fight her emotion down, to continue in what she hopes is a more rational tone. "And even if he weren't, my own life can take me away from Washington on any day and I would never see him again. I lost him once and it broke something deep within me. When we met again he only saw me as a priest. Now he's involved with someone and I am not going to interfere in that."

"What about fighting for your own love?"

Siobhan realizes she can't be angry, not when she has considered this very thing so many times. "I won't. I've seen someone try. In helping her, I only decided for myself that I won't."

"But–"

Siobhan shakes her head emphatically. "I won't put either of us through that. I also have to maintain a relationship with every one of the people I'm there to help. I cannot alienate anyone if I'm going to be effective and I will _not_ interfere in a relationship. That is a sin of the worst kind. I won't _do _it."

"So you'll keep all your feelings secret?"

"Yes. Because I know there is no _possible_ way we will ever have what we had fifteen years ago, and no way to think we have a chance to stay together when he and I can both be assigned to other places half a world away. I will _never_ let him know how I feel!"

"Do you love him?"

"I won't."

"I didn't ask 'will you love him?' I'm asking you to examine, in your own heart, do you love him?"

"I won't!"

x

McFadden looks at the clock on the wall beyond Siobhan's chair. "I'm afraid we're almost out of time. How is that CD I gave you helping you sleep?"

"That's the one thing that _is _helping," she says, forcing a smile, trying to push her feelings back into the past where they belong. It takes effort, but she is able to speak in a more normal tone. "When I listen to it under my pillow, I sleep like a baby."

"I have another one to give you," McFadden says, reaching for the envelope on the desk beside her. "It's slightly different, but I think it will be even more effective. Try this one for two weeks, and we will evaluate it together."

"Thank you, doctor."

xxx

"Ducky, can I ask you something," McGee asks across the small cafeteria table. His lunchtime companion gives him his full attention. "Kind of get your viewpoint, but we keep it between ourselves?" McGee tries to keep his voice toneless, seeking help that doesn't seem likely to come from Above.

"Of course," Ducky assures him, lowering his own voice accordingly.

"People have been telling me - accusing me - and I am not sure if they're right. It's been driving me nuts."

"Accusing you?" This is the first he has heard of any accusations. "Of what?"

"Maybe that's the wrong word. I was talking with Abby; and with Zee the other day. They both think … they both think," he leans in closer, his voice almost inaudible, "they think that I love Siobhan O'Mallory."

Ducky smiles. "Why, my dear boy, of _course_ you do."

x

He pulls back. "Not you too!"

"Whatever is wrong?" Ducky asks, straightening from the conspiratorial conference.

"I _can't _love Shav! I love Ziva!"

Ducky regards him as though he has missed the past several years of his own life. He decides not to point out - yet - that a moment ago the women had been Siobhan and Zee. "What does one have to do with the other?" Into Tim's stunned silence, he asks, "How are your parents?"

This is enough to throw him further off kilter. "Um, they're fine."

"You love your father?"

"Of course. When I can. He's never made it easy."

"And how about your mother, do you love her as well?"

"Of _course_ I do."

"And your sister Sarah?"

"What has this got to–?"

"But do you love one _more_ than the others, or differently?"

Tim thinks seriously about the question. "No, I love them pretty much the same."

"Then why think you cannot have affection for more than one woman?" He gives the younger man a moment to digest this. "The human heart, my boy, is not limited. I, for instance, have affection for a vast number of people at the same time, and though it may be different in type and degree, the feeling is still there. I have loved many women in my long and checkered career, none of them reservedly. As I once counseled Abby, feelings are not subject to analysis, you cannot weigh them on a scale or analyze them in a Mass Spectrometer; they simply _are_."

x

"But that's just it, if I'm in love with Zee, I _can't_ be _in_ love with Siobhan! That's my problem, I'm thinking I'm in love with Ziva _and_ with Shav - and I _can't_ be!"

"Whyever not?" He can see McGee has no answer for that question, any more than he realizes the dichotomy in his own point. "But _are_ you in love with two women? I have seen you with Officer David, are you the same with Reverend O'Mallory?"

"No. I won't _let_ myself be," he declares firmly. "No matter what affection I have for her, I will not _love_ her!"

Ducky is saddened by this declaration, but, "Well, there is an easy way to tell how you feel. When you are quiet, which one comes to mind? Whose voice do you hear in your mind? Whose presence do you long for? Who do you do everything you can to be with?"

"Both of them." He lowers his head into his hands. "I'm doomed."

"Oh, I hardly think so. Tell me, have you ever dreamed of Mother O'Mallory?"

"Only ten or twelve … _dozen_ times." He feels the weight of the world crash upon him, but rallies to shove it off. "No. No matter how I think I feel, I love _Ziva_. And I am going to be faithful to her. I _will not_ love Shav."

"Why are you _determined _not to love Mother O'Mallory?"

"I _can't_. I'm in love with Ziva, she is the - that is, I -."

"Are you saying that in feeling affection for Reverend O'Mallory, you are somehow betraying Officer David?"

"Yes. There's room for only one person in my life."

"Has that worked?"

"No." Tim admits morosely.

Ducky shakes his head sympathetically. "I have heard that determination expressed by many men many times in my life."

"Has it ever worked?"

"No."

xxx

"The C4 was definitely home brewed," Abby, facing her workstation, reports to Gibbs before he's even five feet into the room.

"How did you know I was here?" he asks. She could very well have been making her report to the empty air.

She turns with a self-satisfied smile on her lips. She had not been certain he was actually there when she spoke, but "you always arrive just when I find something. That's 'LAbby Rule Number 1'. I'm taking a page from your book and establishing my own set of rules."

"Just so long as you don't crochet them onto your pillow."

"I can't crochet. I'm having it embroidered onto a sweater."

"What have you got?"

"The wildest winter wardrobe you've ever seen."

He barely manages to hold onto his scowl. "I mean about the C4." He's annoyed that it only makes her smile more broadly.

"It contained none of the chemical markers incorporated into commercial products, when markers were used, so it didn't come from any military supply or other company. But I can tell you this, you're looking for someone who's meticulous and has a lot of experience."

"Do tell."

"It had no markers, but it didn't have any impurities either. Whoever made it definitely knew what he or she was doing. He or she also went for maximum overkill. I read Melanie Kelman's report and I'm sure she's right. There has to be at least 15 pounds of the stuff, _way_ more than was needed to turn that frame into a shrapnel missile launcher and blow anyone within 30 feet to smithereens. Whoever it was didn't just want to leave no witnesses, he didn't want to leave anything."

"You bet that bastard didn't want to leave witnesses," Gibbs says, holding tightly to his emotions, "not after what he did to Janet White."

"Gibbs..." the thought has been haunting her and no one she's asked is close to an answer. "Were we - our friends - the collateral victims or the targets?"

"They were assigned to Harriman while he was in DC for Operation Gamma at the Pentagon. If he hadn't decided that, since he was in the area, he should be at the funeral, they wouldn't have been."

"Then–"

"But Harriman decided the day before to attend."

"Then we don't know who was the target?"

xxx

"What did you find out from Harriman's XO?" Gibbs asks Tony and Ziva an hour later as they enter the bullpen, putting aside their jackets and equipment.

"Not much," DiNozzo admits reluctantly. "Harriman received three death threats in the past three months, one of which was actually called in to his wife, but on the whole it doesn't look like any of them came from the same person. Details were all over the chart. Any one of them could've been our bomber - or even none of them. The threats just weren't specific, the 'we're gonna get you for what you're doing in Afghanistan variety. Knight's team is checking with the wife and an Asad Al-Hassir, but he's presently in Yemen. The last is from a group that pretty much said 'you bomb any more of our villages, we'll slit your throat.' I'm checking to see if they upped their threat to an eye for an eye."

"Ziva."

"Harriman's Executive Officer, Colonel Thomas Bell, is nominally in charge now but my sense is he had nothing to do with the bombing. He had been in Pakistan and flew in just an hour before meeting with us. I can find nothing that would indicate he had anything to do with it."

"So you're just dropping it?" It is hardly a question.

"No, I am not. Colonel Bell is now in charge of everything Harriman headed. If he does well, he could potentially see himself as a General in the next few months, something several other officers I spoke to confirm to be a definite possibility. I want to rule that out as a motive."

"I've tracked down one of the survivors of the Delaney family," Lee announces when Ziva falls silent. "A cousin of Delaney Senior, Linda Mitchell, age 43, did not attend the funeral though she was here in the city. Apparently this is due to a falling out within the family. However, she knows of no threat or reason why they might have been targeted."

"Not good enough."

"I know, sir. Finding any surviving family member who may have had contact with any of the deceased is not easy."

"If it were easy, I wouldn't have assigned it."

"Yes, sir."

"Get out there and interview her in person. DiNozzo, you go with her."

xxx

"Do you want to talk about it?" Reverend George Donaldson asks, his question snapping the woman at the other desk out of her reverie. They're seated in the Church office, Siobhan's pen poised at the paper before her.

"Talk about what?"

Donaldson waves his hand to the paper. "We could talk about your appointment with your doctor–"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You never do, which is why I don't ask," he reminds her. "Otherwise, we could talk about the Lectors' Schedule. You've been working on it for forty five minutes."

She looks at the paper before her. She'd started it as soon as she'd returned from McFadden's office. Of twelve easily determined assignments for this month, simply a matter of choosing the next dozen names from a rotating list of twenty licensed Readers and moving on, she had filled only three before her mind had drifted. Inattentiveness is unlike her, but she also knows the subject before them is not going to be schedules. She puts down her pen. "George, how lost does someone have to be before they're given up for hopeless?"

"Well," he considers, "let's see: there's the shepherd with ninety nine sheep who goes in search of the one which is lost, and the widow with nine coins who sweeps her whole house for the lost one. I seem to remember something about 'rejoicing in Heaven' being in there somewhere."

She sighs. "I guess I deserve that."

"Deserve what?" There had been no recrimination in his tone, yet hers shows she has taken it as such.

"Those are stories about sinners - and I guess I'm the biggest sinner you know today."

He turns his chair about to face her. "You're going to have to explain that one."

"I'm a liar, a fraud, a Jezebel ... and I am being punished for my sins."

x

Donaldson regards her for several seconds, trying to reconcile the woman he knows with that assessment. Then he gets up, goes around his desk to the office door and locks it. He stands blocking it. "All right, Siobhan, let's have it."

"Have what?"

"Obviously something about your session bothered you, or still is bothering you. The day before yesterday you asked for Absolution and I gave it. As far as God and I are concerned, one afternoon of screwing up when you were a kid is over and done. Yet ever since then you can't meet my eyes, and now you're 'a liar, a fraud and a Jezebel'." She again can't meet his eyes.

"Well, if you're a liar you're a good one because I can't see any of it - and believe me, Siobhan, you are _not_ a good liar, you don't have the talent. A fraud, well, that comes under 'liar' and your tongue would fall out of your mouth if you tried to maintain one. And as for 'Jezebel' we _both_ know that's hardly an indictment. I could wish for all the women of this Parish to have the real Jezebel's fortitude and faith in defense of her convictions. Wrong though they were from _our_ point of view, she held fast to her convictions against incredible, overwhelming odds. So tell me where you find such self-recrimination."

She can't look up, wringing her hands so tightly they whiten. "I'm just so ashamed, it was so stupid. And I feel I've lost your respect as well."

"No," he tells her lightly, "after that debacle with the Kimballs a couple of months ago, I couldn't possibly have any less for you."

This does force her to look at him, "Thanks a lot."

"You're very welcome."

x

He says nothing more, letting his silence compel her to speak. When she does, it is with deep shame.

"I think … I am … becoming 'the other woman' in a relationship I don't want to interfere with."

He returns to his desk, giving them both a few seconds to think. When he's settled, he looks at her, his expression is supportive, not judgmental. "How so?"

"You saw Timmy – Agent McGee…"

"Not for the first time," he reminds her. Their first encounter months ago had been dramatic indeed, subsequent ones just as interesting.

"Well, he and I - we have a …" she finally finds a word, "history."

"You don't say."

"Huh?"

He cannot contain a grin. "Siobhan, you've been going on about him all Summer."

"I have?" She is honestly surprised.

"Not in so many words, but your … your moods are closely linked to your times with him. He's been here quite often, and you've met him on other occasions. I heard about McMillan Park."

"Oh, God!" She hides her face, recalling the source, or would that be sources? Helen, Kathy and Tom, the three teenagers who'd seen them together at the Summer Festival had clearly not kept the encounter to themselves. At the time she hadn't cared, she had been too intent upon getting Tim to see her as more woman than priest – and had completely forgotten they'd ever been seen. How could George think any less of her after …?

"Don't _worry_ about it," he tells her firmly, having read the distress so clear on her red face. "You've been appropriately discreet. But nothing goes on in this Parish that God and your Rector don't hear about."

"Why didn't you tell me you knew?" She feels her face heat more.

"If I told you everything I know I'd never have any fun - and _I'd_ lose the reputation for being discreet. I felt that if you wanted to discuss your friendship - or anything else - with a man with me, you would. If not, it was not my business."

"There _is_ no 'anything else'," she insists.

"You seem sure of that. Is he?"

"Yes."

"Then I really can't see your problem." He waits. "Do you love him?"

She stares at him for several seconds, searching for an answer. "I don't know."

"Well, does he love you?"

She searches harder, as she has for weeks. "I don't know."

"Well, that certainly clears that up."

x

"Will you stop _joking_?"

"I can't find a joke in any of this. There's really nothing funny at all. You have, however, been tied in knots for the past month and I'm wondering what I can do to help unknot you."

She touches her throat, the inch-and-a-half high collar that encircles it. When she'd returned to work, she'd put her 'uniform' back on. Unlike the black shirt and squared white tab he favors, the collar about her light blue shirt has always been her preference. It's always seemed less forbidding. Now...

"He can't see beyond this collar, can't see the woman under it. And he's in a relationship with someone, something I'm _not_ going to interfere in, something _he _is not going to interfere in…. Except that, when we were at the park, I was trying to get him to see me for myself and for an instant he _did _see me - and it frightened the life out of me. And no, I am _not_ confusing him with Dennis Whitney."

"I didn't think you were."

The late Dennis Whitney had capitalized upon his resemblance to McGee, enhanced by plastic surgery, to impersonate him and infiltrate NCIS. In doing so had attacked and tried to rape Siobhan. Terrible though the thought is; if ever Donaldson were glad a man no longer lived…

"I'm thinking about Timmy, who has said he will not think of me because of his relationship with Ziva David, and I will not love him - will not think of him - for that same reason and yet I can't _stop_ thinking about him - I can't stop _dreaming _about him - I can't stop thinking about _us_ - I can't stop - _babbling_ like a neurotic lunatic."

"I don't think you're neurotic or a lunatic. I think you're a woman."

"Thanks a lot."

"You know what I mean," he tells her dryly.

"I feel I should ask for Absolution - again."

"You find me a sin in anything you've told me and I'll give it. All I can find are honest, sincere, utterly _confused_ human feelings–"

"Thank you."

"That are totally screwed up by a lack of forthright personal communication."

"I'm _scared_ to have a forthright and personal communication with him."

"Why?"

"What if he tells me he loves me?"

"What if he does? Would _that_ be so bad?"

"He's in love already; neither he nor I want to mess with that. I don't want him to love me under those terms. And you know what our lives are like. What if this Spring my contract's up and I have to leave? What then?"

He can hardly credit that she would pass up - no, reject - an opportunity for potential happiness with the man because of what _might_ happen six months from now, if ever. His contract is also annual and has been for more than eleven years, and she has been a good Curate for these past two. But does she feel about the man the way he suspects she does?

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

Donaldson makes sure he has her full attention. "I've heard all sorts of answers to the classic 'I love you'; everything from 'I love you too' to 'I know'. Where do you fall in that range?"

For a long time Siobhan is silent, considering that question, and George does not break in on her contemplation.


	7. Dangling by a Thread

Chapter Seven  
Dangling by a Thread

Though Tim McGee works at his desk upon a dozen endeavors, the one at the top of his list is the one closest to his heart. His thoughts are fragmented, unfocused; they keep coming back to that one investigation that fires, that consumes him. Normally focus is not a problem for him. Now, while anger drives him to find the killer of his friends, outrage has him searching for a blackmailer. Guilt again and again returns him to his bed with Ziva and the jealous anger he'd left behind, barely addressed and still unresolved. However, thoughts of Siobhan and happier times in the past and happier daydreams about the future intrude – a future he cannot _allow _to exist.

When the conflict is about to make him snap, the telephone intercom rings. "NCIS, Special Agent McGee," he answers automatically.

"McGee," Abby's pleased voice comes back, instantly lifting his spirits. He realizes belatedly he hadn't noticed the difference between outside line and intercom. "I have the hit - get down here ay-sap."

"Going to Warp now."

"Gee, McGee, I always knew you were a little perverted." She hangs up before he has a chance to answer.

xx

"Edward Samson. He has a record running back over twenty years," Abby tells him as they look at a picture displayed on the screen, a classic 'mug shot' with a numbered placard and a series of measured lines behind him showing the height of the black haired suspect at an even six feet. "He started out shoplifting in Scranton, moved on to boosting cars in Philly, was one of New York's 'Top Ten Muggers' in Central Park in the days when that place was world infamous. Then got into, it seems, just about anything that had money attached to it. Internet fraud, identity theft - he was in and out so often they installed his own revolving door."

The man has bushy hair and equally unkempt moustache and could stand to lose thirty pounds, probably the result of easy living off his stolen money. To Tim he just looks soft and worthless.

"But I can't go after him," he grouses, frustrated. "Gibbs said to turn everything over for NCIS to act upon, but he'll never agree now." All the teams are already overloaded dealing with an attack upon the NCIS itself; he knows what his boss' answer would be if he asked now to divert forces to pick up a blackmailer.

"You could turn this over to the police."

"You _know_ I can't do that!" If anything went wrong, Shav's past mistake would become common knowledge and she would be destroyed.

"I have more faith in people, it'll work out."

"I can't take that chance, not with _Shav_!"

She can hear his feelings all too well. "McGee, you're not alone, I care too. I owe her - a lot - but sometimes you have to take a step back and realize you can't do everything." Her voice rises with her passion. "Gibbs is pushing the rules beyond the breaking point already. You should still be on the D.L.! Despite his pushing you into work, you're still disabled. Gibbs should _never _have had Director Shepherd cancel it. You shouldn't even _be_ here."

He's surprised by her fire, but he can't blame her. "I know," he admits morosely, "but I can't leave her alone. She's one of us as much as any other agent. The Agency _has_ to help."

"We _are_ helping, I did help!" she waves at the mug shot still upon the screen. "But we're strapped to the limit. And don't go to Shepherd, she's on a countdown with the Commandant and she'll rip you a new one just for asking." She hugs him, careful of his wounds, trying to find a solution to the guilt. "I'm sorry, McGee, we're under fire and I can't lift you out of this, we're all dangling by a thread."

She feels the set of his body change, the muscles under her hands move, his whole posture changes but he says nothing. When she draws back, he has a strange look on his face. "What's wrong?"

"Say that again."

"Say what again?"

"About how we're under fire."

"I said 'we're under fire and I can't lift you out of this, we're all dangling by a thread'."

The strange look on his face gets even odder. Suddenly he grabs her by her arms, yanks her close and kisses her full on the lips, leaving her so startled she can't move. Breaking the kiss before she's ready or has even caught up enough to enjoy it, he holds her at arms' length. "Abby, you're _brilliant_!"

"If I can be brilliant again, will you kiss me again?"

His kiss is as intense as the first one had been and, since she's ready for it and is able to throw her own arms about him and respond to his fire, even more enjoyed. Ever since she'd 'confessed' her feelings for him, she has been longing for this moment.

"_**TIM**_!" A furious shout explodes from the rear doorway; they turn to where Ziva stands staring, outraged. Without hesitating, McGee releases Abby, hurries to Ziva, grabs her and kisses her as passionately, astonishing the woman. He turns her around and holds the kiss for nearly half a minute. When he finally lets her go, she staggers backward into the lab, breathless.

"Have to go! Sorry! See you later!"

He is out the door she had been blocking, leaving the stunned women behind him. Ziva shakes herself loose from her befuddlement.

"I am going to kill him," she mutters, then turns to Abby, "or I am going to kill _you_!" She turns back to the vacant door. "Either way, I am going to kill _somebody_!"

xx

"No, McGee."

These are the first words Ziva hears as she reaches the Squad Room, but they're not the worst.

Tim stares at his boss, stunned. "You said once I had a name and location I should come to you and you would send a team–"

"I haven't _got_ a team to send!" Gibbs reminds him forcefully, restraining himself from waking the man's brain up. "That was before we got hit with all this mess. I gave you an assignment, where is –?"

"It's in your email, but Boss–"

"Wake up, McGee! I know you're concerned about your friend but she is not a priority. She has until the end of the week to come up with the money and you know how we handle that. Make the drop, bust him when he–"

"And her past comes out if we prosecute and she must testify. That's what I'm trying to _avoid–_!"

"Well, I'm not sure how you can avoid i–"

"By busting him before he can do any mo–!"

"Wake up, we have a thing called 'law' here an–!"

"If he's doing this to her, he's likely doing it to others and if we ca–!"

"Put it on _hold_, McGee!" Gibbs' loud command wins the contest. "Your priority is finding out who's killing our _Agents_! Now get back to your desk and get on it!"

x

Throughout the entire floor, every agent is carefully attentive to this confrontation, so surprising since none of them had ever seen a break between this Supervisor and this man. There was the case of the imposter, but this is the real Tim McGee who could be throwing his future away.

Closer to the scene, Ziva wants to break in, to head off disaster. But there is nothing she, Tony or Michele can do but hold their places and watch as a friend self-destructs.

They breathe a sigh of relief when Tim stalks back to his desk, but then he snatches his jacket and yanks it on as he heads for the elevator.

"McGee! What do you think you're doing?" Gibbs demands, outraged by this defiance.

"There are nearly three hundred agents in the District, most of them devoting their efforts to catching these bastards. Shav has only _one_ agent she can count on to help her, who knows where his priorities are. I've been her friend for a lot more years than I've been an Agent." He yanks the gold shield from his belt, displaying it. "Tomorrow morning I'm either going to have to put on this badge or look myself in the face when I shave. If you were me, you'd do the math and make the same decision." He strides to the elevator, stabbing the call button.

"McGee," Gibbs is not sure if he is more angry or incredulous, "get back to–!"

"Not this time! I can't." The door opens before him.

Gibbs comes out of the bullpen, his anger erupting. "McGee, you get on that elevator and you're _fired_!"

Such is the belief in his boss' word that he actually does hesitate, but then he boards the car and the doors close after him, leaving silence in his wake.

Gibbs stares at the door. His words are softened, as though he can barely believe he's saying them.

"You're fired."

xx

Tim opens his cell phone as the elevator descends, wondering just when he had crossed from sanity into madness. He has just walked off his job, his life and his future - and he finds he truly doesn't give a damn! Nothing matters to him anymore, not when the person who has trusted him with _her_ future–.

The phone rings only three times before a man's voice answers. He identifies himself, concluding with "I need help."

"Hey, every time I look at Kimberly I'm reminded that if it weren't for you she'd be dead. You pulled her out of that fire and I count every day since as a blessing. Whatever you want, it's yours."

xxx

Edward Samson lies upon his couch, his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling and contemplating his fortune. The sudden death of his partner and mentor Trevor Hanson, who had pipe dreams of guiding him out of a life of crime, had been sad. The windfall that had resulted from the disposition of his properties had been a treasure. Mingled with the thousands upon thousands of negatives from a lifetime of work at nude photography had been countless selections of images declared unusable. That is, if one followed the law.

Of course, following the law or doing what's right has never meant anything to Ed Samson. To him there are two kinds of people in the world, those that do the 'right' thing and those who are rich. His goal, now and always, is to be rich. Now and always 'might makes right', and his is the right to make money.

One reason why Trevor Hanson never made the kind of money Samson is making today is that he never had the courage to take advantage of his opportunities. He never threw anything out - ever - there was always the opportunity to sell past work to other magazines, but there were some that were unusable and yet were kept because of that same packrat mentality. Hanson had locked away a load of pictures spanning decades, photos of lovely nubile bitches that were too young to see print but who, through the magic of the Internet, could be found.

Now Samson has these too, and those who have made something of themselves down through the years could be coerced to make something for him.

Now he has 17 women under his power, women who don't want their sordid pasts revealed to the world. Some are Corporate bigwigs, some are professionals, some had married into money and don't want to risk losing it on the indiscretions of the past. There are a lot more that had been found and will in due time be convinced to share their fortunes. For now, his stable of beauties is a comfortable start.

Seventeen, at a modest two thousand a month, means he can just lay back and collect, at this point, thirty four thousand dollars a month - _cash_. Who knows where things will go when he gets the other fifty six under his control? Hansen had been in business for a long time, the number of stupid girls is impressive. All he has to do is keep them as frightened women. A hundred forty six thousand a month - _cash _- each and every month with no more labor involved than just making sure a flock of stupid bitches stays scared enough to keep in line and away from the police. He'd hardly have to increase the dole - though with several of the better heeled bitches he will!

A sharp knock at his door surprises him. Going to his door, he stands beside it, calling out cautiously, "Who's there?"

"Federal Express."

Surprised, he opens the door, even more surprised to find a brown haired man standing beyond it, one not wearing a brown uniform. "What is this?"

"Siobhan O'Mallory sends her regards." Samson feels his face give him away. The man raises his hand and fires. Two hundred thousand volts sear his body as the TASER releases its full charge, blasts every neuron in his body, makes him fall hard to the floor, writhing in pain. A moment later the world goes black.

x

"Well, Abby," Tim McGee mutters, "it still works."

Several months ago Abby's friend Dawn Caldwell had been victimized by the 'Fed Ex gambit'; and he had just endured two days of torture with an electric cattle prod.

This feels a little like payback.

xxx

When the blackness of oblivion begins to clear, it gives way to near deafening noise and vibration heavy enough to shake teeth from his jaws. Ed Samson opens his eyes and finds himself lying flat upon a steel slab in a metal chamber which vibrates with the sound of heavy machinery. It doesn't take him long to realize he's in a helicopter, but a very special kind, one far larger than he is used to. He recognizes this is an enclosed military helicopter, built to carry twenty or thirty people. When he looks about, he finds there are only three people in the chamber with him, two men and a woman. He recognizes one of the men, the one sitting opposite him next to the woman, as the one who attacked him. They're all wearing Army fatigues. He has never met the woman but he recognizes her instantly – from her Church and from her pictures.

"Oh, God." His voice rasps, dry with fear.

"You got that right, pal," the man who had assaulted him says, his voice erupting from a crypt.

Samson looks around, frantic. "Where am I?"

"Good question," his captor grants, looking at the other man above the level of Samson's head, "where are we?"

Samson sits up as the man opens the door behind him slightly, the noise increasing as he calls loudly, "What's our position?"

"Eleven miles out, altitude 500 feet," comes the loud answer.

"That's eleven miles out over the _Atlantic_," his captor proclaims. "Lose a body out here, just terrible. Hope you can swim." There is no sympathy, or hope, in the man's tone. There's only a deep and searing anger. This is not a merciful man.

"What do you want?"

"I like a man who gets down to business," he looks at his compatriot at the forward door, "don't you?" The other only nods. His captor leans forward.

"You recognize this woman, you _know_ what we want. Every picture, every negative, every image on every computer and media you have. You're going to tell us exactly where to find them."

Without waiting for an answer, _any_ answer, he crosses the chamber to Samson's left, to a huge steel door, unbolts and slides it aside. It rumbles as it opens. Immediately the noise increases ten-fold and a rush of wind cuts through the chamber. The door leads into the night.

"One of two ways, dirtbag; give them up or I make sure you never publish them. You have three seconds."

"Listen, maybe we can cut a deal, I don't have to release _her_ pict–"

The man bends over him, grasps his shirt and yanks him to his feet. They're an inch apart and the roaring wind whips about them. "Wrong answer, pal!"

With maniacal strength the man whips Samson off balance to his right, reverses and flings him through the door! The woman's shriek mingles with his own as he falls into the night.

x

Samson screams as he falls in the blackness toward the Atlantic far below, his shriek cut short as he's wrenched to a painful stop by a biting grip to his left ankle. He's barely aware he's stopped falling before being buffeted by cyclonic winds, lost in the blackness. He looks with disbelief at the chain attached to his ankle, keeping him dangling and swinging in the wind. The chain leads up forty feet to the open door of the roaring helicopter. It's a huge, double propeller Army transport, barely visible against the stars. Only the aid of blinking running lights and the light from the open door allow him to see the huge machine. He can't see the Atlantic five hundred feet below him. Wind from the powerful propellers and from the turbulent ocean buffet him on all sides.

"Pull me up!" he screams frantically,

"The pictures," his captor's amplified voice booms from the roaring helicopter, the wash of the machine and the whipping winds almost drowning everything else out.

"Please!" he yells, praying he can be heard over the din. "You don't have to do this! I'll cut you in for _half_! You can be _Rich_!"

"The pictures! The negatives! _All_ of them!" the booming voice shakes the night. "Right _now _- or I cut you loose."

"NO! _Please_!"

"Where are they?"

"My apartment - closet in my bedroom! _Please_!" The chaotic winds tear at him, worse from the sides than from the hovering behemoth slicing through the night.

"All of them?" the man's voice thunders over the rotors.

"All of them! I _swear_! Every single one! You can have them _all_! Just let me go free!"

"Okay - I'll cut you loose."

"_NO_!" Samson shrieks. "_DON'T_!"

"Okay," his captor's normal voice says from right beside him, "you do it." Samson feels something hard and heavy slapped into his chest. "Here."

x

All about him lights come on singly, in pairs and groups and he clutches frantically at a long set of bolt cutters. Next to him stand the man who had captured him, the woman priest who was going to help him get rich and their unknown accomplice. All about him lights continue to come on in a tremendous chamber.

He looks 'up' at the helicopter supported by long black steel beams reaching out from the studio walls, the props just clearing the one wall and a high black ladder reaching to the other side of the 'copter. All about him, huge fans aimed at him are being turned off by the pilot, the chamber growing quieter by the moment. Looking toward the 'Atlantic' below, he hangs three feet off the sound stage floor.

His captor, still 'upside down', pulls a leather case from his pocket and opens it up, displaying a gold shield. "Federal Agent. Edward Samson, you're–" but the woman priest reaches out, touches his arm.

"Timmy, may I?"

"Be my guest," he tells her with gallant courtesy.

From her pants pocket she pulls out a similar case and Samson's heart turns over as she displays a gold badge and smiles with infinite satisfaction. "You're under arrest."


	8. Epilogues

Epilogue One

At quarter after one in the morning Supervisory Special Agent Martine Joswig lets herself into her apartment and locks the door behind her. She is monumentally tired and grateful she no longer has to disguise it, so mentally and physically exhausted it's an effort to get her sluggish brain to think any thoughts other than 'bed'. Kicking off her high heeled shoes as she walks, she decides to put them away tomorrow, for the moment grateful to feel the more comforting carpet on her bare feet. It's past time for bed.

Going into her bedroom and to the ivory colored writing desk beyond her bed, she tugs the band holding her pony tail in place and drops it onto the table, shaking out her black hair. She shrugs out of her jacket, hanging it over the back of the chair before the desk. Then she pulls off the black leather shoulder harness holding her Sig, drapes it over the chair and lets it hang over her jacket. Next she unbuttons her blouse, removes it and lays it aside on the bed. Now clad in her red bra and black skirt, she bends down, pulls the Sig from its holster, her thumb slips the safety off as she whirls and levels the gun in a two handed grip at the man standing in the bedroom doorway.

"You _Idiot_! I almost blew your head off!" She raises the gun and slips the safety back on. "What are you doing here?"

"Watching you undress," he says, coming into the room as she sets the gun on the desk behind her. "And that's not the head I really like you to blow." He comes closer to the foot of the bed and pulls her close.

"I was wrong," she tells him lovingly, "you're not an idiot. You're a disgusting, sexist animal," she puts her arms about his neck, molding her body to his.

"But you'll never cure me." He kisses her, his hands fervently stroking her body and Martine's thoughts are no longer about sleep. They're still about bed but sleep will come later when she's finally more relaxed. As they cling to one another, their hands hungrily exploring one another's heating bodies, she feels the tension of the day replaced by far more pleasurable tension.

x

She kisses him, her hot passion burning her as she presses her body to his, enjoying the feel of his hands exploring her flesh, igniting her. His lips slip to her throat and she groans loudly as fiery sensations flare through her body. Her cries increase in volume with every breath as his hands consume her. His lips at her throat drive her mad, rip lustful groans from her. His hand behind her undoes the tiny hooks of her red bra and she feels it slip away even as she tugs at his clothing. She doesn't draw back even to let the bra be pulled away but clings to him, hungrily kisses him. Her tongue duels with his, her right hand grips his hair and she doesn't let him pull away. Martine wants to devour him, wants him to force her onto the bed beside her and take her with merciless hunger.

She barely registers the pressure at her left ribs a moment before a barely muffled gunshot, still loud to her ears, blasts searing pain through her. She stiffens in shock and agony as the bullet cuts through her body from left to right side. It pierces her lungs and heart to erupt out her right side. Agony vies with astonishment. Her lips are still trapped against his, her scream smothered. Her wide eyes are locked upon his, and she can't find the love that fired them.

Martine's knees buckle as the second shot explodes into her. The agony of the second bullet tears through her. Angled slightly downward, it slices through her left lung, under her heart and pierces her diaphragm, puncturing her liver before erupting out of her body. She sags in his arms. The pain is so intense she never truly feels the third bullet tear through her stomach and lower liver to also rip out her right side.

Martine falls backward to slam to the floor, her right arm slapping the mattress, knocked back across her body and then to fall to her side into the blood pooling beside her. Her very last sight as agony blurs her eyes is the emptiness in his eyes above her. He looks down at her and his eyes are empty. She tries to speak, but her cough brings blood to lips that can only form her soundless question: Why?

Her Sig is on the desk beside her, miles away. She can feel the blood gushing...

Her eyes close. There is nothing but darkness.

x

The man walks out of the room, his clothes covered with her blood. He'll need the overcoat he'd left in the stairwell down the hall. He slips the thick leather glove over his bloody hand to push open the door. He leaves the apartment and closes the door unlocked behind him.

Epilogue Two

McGee, accompanied by his temporary 'partner' Chaplain O'Mallory, enter Headquarters the following morning, feeling vastly satisfied. It had taken hours to wrap up the case last night. When McGee had finally driven O'Mallory back to the Rectory following her first Citizen's Arrest and the statements she was obliged to give, she had been extremely grateful to her old friend for all he'd done. She does, however, make it a point to be present this morning, meeting him downstairs in the garage so they can arrive in Operations together.

Though the location of the incriminating evidence had been obtained in a very unorthodox manner, through very questionable legality, that manner had proven effective indeed. Late in the night a team had entered Samson's apartment, carrying a warrant with no one to present it to. They ported the warrant on the wall in accord with the letter of the law and then scoured the apartment, retrieving every piece of photographic evidence in whatever media it was stored, be it negative, print or computer file.

Samson is presently in a holding cell downstairs, his disposition to be determined. His boxes of treasure sit upon Ziva David's desk, ready when the Alpha Shift team assembles with one of NCIS' newest recruits.

Siobhan cannot bear to not be present for the dénouement. She's cautiously undemonstrative in her gratitude this morning, even when the pair rode up alone in the elevator. Were he to ask, she'd say it's because he's still hurting from the wounds received during his captivity. The truth is that Siobhan, shaken to the core by this close call, doesn't want to touch anyone.

McGee has no time to empty his equipment into his desk drawer before being drawn into the conference with the rest of his team. Last night's operation was not only unorthodox, it was unauthorized and extra-legal in the extreme. Had it been less than a complete success, he's sure he won't survive Gibbs' response.

This morning McGee and O'Mallory are in their usual attire, rather than last night's green Army fatigue uniforms. Of McGee's temporary unemployment Gibbs chooses to say nothing, and in the celebratory atmosphere no one is about to remind him.

x

"What are we going to do with them?" Michelle Lee asks, looking over the boxes, soon to be safely ensconced in the Evidence Lockers. They're filled with thickly stuffed manila envelopes, a name written across the upper edge of each. There's an appalling number of envelopes, each representing a victimized woman.

"I don't know, Lee," Gibbs counters, "what do you suggest?"

She knows from his tone that he has definite plans; it remains only to see if her judgment jives with his. She hopes so. "Since a confession obtained under duress, especially such duress as reported is inadmissible and a good, or even a bad, lawyer would challenge it and Tim's – sorry, Special Agent McGee's – actions were unorthodox, unauthorized and constitute numerous illegal acts, we cannot prosecute Edward Samson." She's sorry to see the distress on O'Mallory's face.

"_However_, we can return the photographs to the victims of the scheme. If _they _wish to file suit against Samson, they are well within their rights to do so. How the photographs were obtained may well be judged to be irrelevant."

Gibbs looks about the bullpen at his team. "You heard the lady." He hardly needs to tell them what to do next; obtain IDs from the envelopes. They already know each contains a front page with the particulars on each victim, so there will be no need to examine any contents. They are simply to start making calls.

Gibbs reaches into one of the boxes, searches though the thick manila envelopes for a moment, withdraws one and extends it to Siobhan. It will not be needed as part of a stack of evidence.

She steps back, revolted. "Please - burn them."

Gibbs is quite content to hear this decision. "McGee, show her to the incinerator."

"I'm just happy this is all over," Siobhan declares to her old friend as he takes the rejected envelope. "Even though I knew what was really happening, my heart still turned over when you threw him out of that helicopter."

"You really threw him out of a helicopter, McGee?" Gibbs demands.

"Well, er," he does not want to say it. "Yes."

He slaps McGee's arm. "I've always wanted to try that. I didn't think you had it in you."

"Right out of 'Mission: Impossible'!" DiNozzo enthuses, wishing he'd been there to see it.

It takes McGee a moment to turn off his initial apprehension and enjoy the compliment. "Just luck to have a very grateful movie producer on my side."

x

Several weeks ago, while driving home from work, McGee had come upon a burning house and had rushed in, pulling out Kimberly Vitale, teenage daughter of said movie producer. The man had been monumentally grateful, enough to give any reward Tim McGee might ask for. McGee now considers them even.

"Now get back to work – you've had enough Leave."

"I spent it at my desk," he protests over the sound of the elevator ringing.

"Your own fault, I _gave_ you the chance."

x

"_Gibbs_, _Gibbs_!" Abby cries, running into the bullpen in typical elation, "you've gotta _see_ this! Hi, Siobhan, congratulations!"

"Thanks," she answers, barely keeping up with the 'Caf-Pow!'-energized woman.

"See what, Abs?" Gibbs asks, trying to keep her focused. He doesn't bother to try to rein her in.

"Remember when I broke the programming on all those brainwash disks you confiscated from Sam Richards' patients?"

It had only been a few weeks ago. "What did you find?"

"Well, I'm done examining every one of them. I had to be sure there were no variations in the coup d'état. Coup d'état, I love that word. Those words."

"Abby." He should've reined her in.

"Once you filter out all the hinky music which is supposed to send you into La-La land, you're left with a series of progressively worsening suggestions that ultimately become directions. They're so low and so fast the ears can't hear them - but the brain does. Stage One starts out nice and mellow, a bit of resentment, a bit of aggravation, but by the end of a few hours if it you're ready to hurt somebody. It goes on over and over all night, every time you try to sleep.

"Later versions reinforce the need; you actually get _addicted_ to the music and you've got to keep coming back to it. That's why I was having so many problems, I came in in the middle of the program, so to speak. Outwardly you're fine, you're programmed to act like nothing's going on, but inside you're turning into a brainwash junkie."

x

DiNozzo is about to interject a movie title, Gibbs is ready and silences him with an upraised hand.

"They get worse as you go along," Abby says with a grateful 'thank you' Sign gesture to Gibbs, "but every single one of them contains the kill command. You're supposed to kill the one you love the most - presumably your husband or wife who's in the Service, then do _yourself _the same way. Murder-suicide was supposed to eliminate witnesses that could trace the plot back. Even if the subject can't self-terminate then and there, he or she is to do it as soon as possible.

"The instructions get more specific as the disks are switched one for another, presumably as Richards got to know more and more about you, but even 'Stage One' will be enough to make you kill on command if you listen to it often enough."

"Abby." He does not actually say 'get to the point', his tone does.

"Well, every one of them had the very same kill command - all but _one_."

x

This news is as significant as it is unpleasant, and no one has to work too hard to reach the same conclusion. "Another Doctor?"

"That's my guess too, but how could it happen that one of the disks winds up in the group Richards had?"

"DiNozzo, David, check the histories of every patient, did anyone see anyone else but Richards? McGee, get back on that secret pocket thingy in his computer, tear it apart until you find something. Lee, you and I are going out to interview this woman with the different disk," he turns to Abby, "who is it?"

"Mrs. Ann West, her husband's Major Tom West, Army."

Gibbs pulls out his cell phone. He wants Col. Hollis Mann of Army CID in on this one from the top.

x

DiNozzo has one last concern before leaping into the work. "What about this command? Could it be triggered accidentally?"

"Nope. Just like Richards' bunch, the codewords are so obscure you'd never hear it these days. They're from pairs of children's cartoons from years and years ago. They probably don't run them anywhere but in the Museum of Broadcasting. He used 'Courageous Cat and Yogi Bear'. This other one is 'Secret Squirrel and Batfink'."

"Well done, Abby," Gibbs says, "get–"

Tim feels the tug of his Sig being yanked out of its holster from behind. He whirls and feels his blood turn to ice.

Siobhan, a terrible, blank-eyed stare locked upon him, holds the gun inches from his face.

Abby's whisper is loud in the stillness. "Oh _crap_!"

ooo

To Be Continued…

ooo

Next Episode: Swiss Knife:  
Tragedy overwhelms the Agents as an unknown enemy declares war on the NCIS.


End file.
